


Not That Bad, When You Get Used to It

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Beads, Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BDSM, Blasphemy, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Clone Sex, Clones, Come Shot, Comedy, Coming Untouched, Consensual Possession, Costumes, Crack, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Two Penises (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, Domestic Bliss, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Facials, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Flower Language, Food Kink, Food Porn, Frottage, Glory Hole, Hemipenes, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, I SAID I DON'T KNOW, I don't know what's going on don't ask me, Intercrural Sex, Light Bondage, Lingerie, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Misuse of the English language, Morning Sex, Multi, Non-Consensual Kissing, Oral Sex, Other, Plantfucking, Possession, Power Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pregnancy, Rimming, Safe Sane and Consensual, Selfcest, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sex Pollen, Sex Swing, Sex Toys, Sex with Snake Form Crowley (Good Omens), Sex with a Car, Sexual Roleplay, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Somnophilia, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tentacles, Thighs, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Truth Serum, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Victorian Slang, Wall Sex, Wet Dream, at some point they have both a penis and a vulva, but vertical, discorporation, extremely vague passing mention of oviposition, kind of, more plant tentacles, mushroom sex, not to quote the lion king but Be Prepared, not up to dick, she/her pronouns for the Bentley, switching efforts, they don't mean bad they're just idiots, uh, undernegotiated somnophilia, uuuuuuuuuuh, very improper scissoring, vicarious masturbation through a book, vine tentacle sex shibari, whatever the hell that means
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 60
Words: 54,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22482946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Crack prompt fills. I'm so sorry.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Books, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley's plants, Aziraphale/Crowley/Bentley, Aziraphale/Crowley/Crowley's plants, Aziraphale/Hastur (Good Omens)
Comments: 3310
Kudos: 1380
Collections: Snakey Bits!Crowley, The Apocalapse, The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies of OLHTS





	1. Driving Stick with No Gloves On

**Author's Note:**

> This here is a series of terrible, terrible crack prompt fills, so... hopefully it doesn't awaken anything in anyone.
> 
> I apologise. Have fun. Stay feral.
> 
> [Find a very crude index here](https://chamyl.tumblr.com/post/629781387730403328/not-that-bad-when-you-get-used-to-it-chapter) because it was getting SO LONG AO3 wouldn't let me post it in here. Wahoo?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Crowley getting sexual/horny for his car.

It is not important how Aziraphale ended up with his thighs on either side of Crowley’s head, his back uncomfortably pressed into the pristine leather of the Bentley’s backseat. It isn’t important that his hair is a mess, that his trousers and underwear have been unceremoniously tossed on the car’s floor (it is, however, worthy of note that it is an exceptionally clean car floor).

It isn’t important why or how they began to talk about this, or how Crowley stuttered his way through the most bewildering confession Aziraphale has ever heard – something about how the demon slowly realised his powers were rubbing off on the Bentley through the years, about how he noticed the car had gradually become completely sentient.

Alcohol was involved (of course). Much alcohol was involved when Crowley got to the part of the story where he realised that his car, _even his bloody car_ , had developed strong feelings for Aziraphale by proxy, and that it had clearly manifested (how?) the desire to, well, have the angel _check her oil_. Have him _drive stick with no gloves on_. Have him _fill up her gas tank._ Have him _park her in his garage_.

(It should be noted that Aziraphale never had a garage, so there was no way to misinterpret what the Bentley was referring to.)

What’s important, right now, is Crowley’s wolf-hungry look as he closes the fingers of both hands around as much of Aziraphale’s thighs as they can hold, hoisting the angel’s knees over his shoulders. What’s important is that Aziraphale can very clearly feel the demon pressing the flat of his tongue low, so very low, against his – _oh, good Lord_ – and then slowly, ever so slowly dragging it up along the angel’s embarrassingly wet folds.

When the demon pauses for a moment, Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath into the back of his hand. Crowley flashes him a shit-eating grin, and then proceeds to do something _utterly demonic_ with his thumb – he presses and pulls up and – _oh goodness_ , the angel realises he’s somehow even more exposed now, and then Crowley just, just – he just closes his lips around Aziraphale’s – _oh Almighty God have mercy –_ and begins to gently lap at it, even being as brazen as to _let out a low, amused sound against it_ when Aziraphale’s hands snap to his hair, and – _fuck_ – shocks of pleasure travel up his spine until he’s not even sure himself whether he’s trying to drag the demon closer or tug him away.

Crowley gently presses a long finger inside him and Aziraphale can’t help but gratefully rock against his mouth and hand, deliriously babbling _thank you,_ and _oh, Crowley,_ and _yes, yes, just like that,_ and then – and then Crowley turns towards the radio.

“He’s all yours, baby.”

For a moment, Aziraphale blinks and doesn’t remember – _baby_? surely Crowley isn’t calling him _baby_ , right? – until he does: he’s agreed to this. It is not important why he decided to agree to this, what matters is that he’s a very proper, respectable angel, mind your own business and thank you very much. And that he’s agreed to this, anyway.

Crowley licks his lips in a way that can’t be described as anything but _absolutely obscene_ and bends down again, the tip of his tongue back at work while his finger pushes in and out of Aziraphale.

And then – and then. The engine comes to life underneath them. The whole car begins to vibrate, a lazy, low purr that slowly grows into a full tremble, and all Aziraphale can do is yelp and grip the seat as Crowley gives it all he’s got, curving his finger inside him while his devilish mouth works relentlessly against sensitive flesh and Aziraphale’s world shakes and crumbles around him as he comes, pulling Crowley’s face closer and riding up into his mouth until he’s taken his fill and breathlessly falls back onto the seat, letting the demon go.

It isn’t important what happens after. It isn’t important how Crowley waits for him to be back to himself before pulling him into his lap and fucking him until he can’t walk straight anymore (so that makes two of them). Or how Crowley cleans them up with a snap of his fingers and straightens Aziraphale’s crooked bowtie for him. Or how Crowley pats the steering wheel as he drives them back home, muttering ‘ _good girl’_ to his car.

What matters is that, a few days later, when Aziraphale gets in the car to go out for dinner with Crowley, the Bentley revs up her engine just for him, and the angel could swear – she’s happy to see him again.


	2. Lockpicking Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Aziraphale enjoys his food just a bit too much.

Crowley was absolutely positive that his brain was working against him.

There was no other possible explanation as to why he’d accept Aziraphale’s proposal to have their little secret rendezvous at a restaurant that offered an expensive, extensive, luxurious buffet. If there was something outright pornographic about the way Aziraphale ate while sitting down at a table, relishing in the dishes he’d carefully ordered à la carte; putting the angel anywhere near a buffet table was filthier and more scandalous than any roman orgy Crowley had ever witnessed. And that was saying something.

So, yes. He’d accepted without thinking, and he’d been an idiot, and his brain was definitely working against him. Maybe with a little help from other parts of his anatomy, too.

He glanced at the extensive charcuterie board behind him as he carefully decided to place himself near the centre of the long table, where the restaurant staff had put a huge bowl of fruit. Nobody went for the fruit, so this was the best spot to discuss their very secret plans to influence Warlock towards becoming a perfectly normal human being rather than the Adversary, the Destroyer of Worlds, whatever whatever.

“You were saying?” Aziraphale asked, bringing Crowley back to the present moment.

“Right, yes.” Crowley gave him one slow blink. “Yesterday was a bust. I got all the way to the principal’s office, but the key I had wouldn’t turn in.”

“Why didn’t you—” Aziraphale began to ask, mimicking snapping his fingers, “oh, yes. You don’t like that.”

“Seems a bit unfair, doesn’t it? They spend so much time and money putting up doors and locks and then we can just go and…” Crowley shrugged, “seems a bit classless, that’s all.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. Since it was his _you just like doing things the human way because it makes you feel like you’re in one of those unbelievably trite spy movies you enjoy so much, I know that, and you know I know that_ smile, Crowley didn’t push his point.

“You know, Crowley…” Aziraphale began to say, setting down his now empty plate, “I knew a gentleman, oh, two or three centuries ago, it must have been, who used to pride himself of being able to open any door at all. He taught me the most interesting technique. Would you like me to show you?”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow above his dark glasses. “Sure.”

Aziraphale’s fingers wiggled – ah, yes, that idiotic, adorable thing he did every time he was about to perform a magic trick – and he grabbed a clean little plate and a peach from the fruit bowl. With a small knife, he cut the peach precisely in half.

Then, he got a banana, and Crowley’s mouth quirked the way it did when he was starting to realise he’d just agreed to something that was going to give him brand new material for the lewd fantasies he definitely didn’t have. Fantasies he definitely hadn’t had since the Garden of Eden, that he most definitely did not jerk off to guiltily every other week.

Nope.

Aziraphale peeled the banana and picked up the pit-less half of the peach.

“Now, listen carefully,” he began, as if Crowley wasn’t already hanging on his lips, “you have to repeat these steps exactly. Ah, would you be a dear and get the honey behind you?”

Against his better instincts, Crowley did.

“Good, thank you so much, now… could you please put it on the banana?”

Crowley watched his hands picking up the honey dipper, lifting it over the banana, and letting it drip the thick, golden syrup all over the tip of the fruit as if he was moving in a dream.

“Just so, yes, perfect. Starting from the tip, make sure to slather it all along the length of it. You want your key to be completely coated in lubricant before you even try. Oh, yes, that’s it.” Crowley’s ears burned and his knees almost buckled under him. “Just a little more… just a little—ah, yes. That’ll be enough for now.”

Crowley pulled away the dipper, watching a long, thin rope of honey clung to the top of the banana until it popped. His mouth was suddenly very, very dry.

“Now, as you can see, your key here is completely wet and slick,” Aziraphale said like he was talking about the weather, and Crowley elected to shove his hands down his pockets as far as they would go, if only to hide the rising bulge in his jeans. The angel pressed the tip of the banana right at the centre of the half-peach he was holding. “Well, there is a bit of fuzz here, obviously a lock wouldn’t have it, but we’ll have to work with what we have, won’t we?”

Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, completely focused on his fruit, but Crowley nodded desperately all the same. He might have agreed to pretty much anything, at that point.

The angel began to move the tip of the banana against the juicy flesh of the peach, up and down, very slowly. Crowley wondered if it was his imagination, or if Aziraphale’s voice had dropped a little lower. “Watch carefully, now, it’s all in the wrist. See? You have to go gently, as gentle as you possibly can. Apply just the tiniest bit of pressure, _yes_ … you will feel the lock starting to give and let you in. You might be tempted to shove the key in, at this moment, and it might even work, but you have to resist a little while longer…”

Crowley licked his lips, his yellow eyes open wide behind his glasses, fixed on Aziraphale’s hands. The angel moved faster now, grinding the banana into the peach harder, beginning to mash its tip a little bit. Juice leaked from the peach, mixed with the honey, and pooled into the palm of his hand, slid down his wrist, into his sleeve. Crowley couldn’t look away.

“And… yes. Yes, that’s perfect. _Now_ you begin to push. Slowly, my dear, ever so slowly.” His thumb rubbed against the edge of the peach, caressing it up and down, and Crowley swallowed. “I’m afraid that’s as much as I can show you here, but at this point you should be able to bottom out easily and begin to turn.”

Crowley gaped like a fish. “Turn?”

Finally, Aziraphale looked back at him. “Yes, of course. Turn the key in the lock.”

The demon cleared his throat. “Right, yes. The key. In the lock. Obviously. Listen, I…” he furiously racked his brain for any excuse to get himself and his very hard prick out of the restaurant and came up empty. “Something came up. Have to go. Many thanks, very useful.”

He turned on his heels and left in a hurry, so he didn’t see Aziraphale standing there, slowly putting down the peach as a devious little smile grew on his face.

He didn’t hear the waiter approaching the blond gentleman who was standing by the buffet table with nothing but a banana in his hand asking Aziraphale whether everything was alright.

He didn’t watch as Aziraphale replied, “oh, very much so,” and bit into the fruit, honey smearing the corner of his lips.


	3. Green Thumb (part 1 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: sentient plants.

While it’s true that Crowley has a very tenuous grasp on human language, finding himself spluttering and stuttering all too often, in this particular case anyone in the world would have been at a loss for words, walking into such a scene.

Because Crowley has just walked back into his apartment to find Aziraphale stark naked, his skin glistening with – sweat, hopefully? – hanging upside down in his plant room. A vine around his wrists binds them behind his back and two more vines, wrapped around his knees and ankles, hold him up splayed open.

The demon can’t quite see Aziraphale’s front from where he’s standing, but he sees his plump angelic buttocks alright, and there’s definitely something going between and inside his –

“Angel?” He croaks out.

Aziraphale raises his head – or, well, tilts his head back, considering he’s upside down – and his mouth falls open.

“I-I can explain!”

🌿

Since he now has his own key to Crowley’s apartment, Aziraphale thought it’d be nice to drop in and leave him a new plant as a surprise. A little 'thank you for these months together' gift. Something colourful, something with flowers! Something Crowley would never dare shouting at, since it's a present from his angel. 

However, as he steps inside the plant room, Aziraphale finds himself fascinated by a small succulent off to the side. It exudes a very strong demonic aura, but it looks like a deflated football, with black leaves in a circle all around it.

“Oh dear, whatever happened to you? There there, you little wily creature, I’m sure with a bit of sunlight and water you’ll be just f—”

He’s cut off by the plant suddenly snapping open and shooting a steady stream of white, glittery pollen right in his holy face.

Aziraphale coughs and waves his hand through the air, pushing the pollen away. He checks his clothes – he’s not dirty, he just has to shake some of that pearly dust off his shoulders, and—

“Fuck.”

And he’s pitching a tent in his pants.

🌿

He starts off in Crowley’s bed. A little nap, he calls it. What he ends up doing is rubbing himself against Crowley’s silky black sheets until he’s made a mess.

“Oh dear,” he sighs guiltily, then immediately switches his effort and goes again, fingering himself until he comes for the second time biting hard into Crowley’s pillow.

Next, he locks himself in the bathroom, taking advantage of Crowley’s powerful showerhead until his knees buckle and he has to hold himself up with a hand against the wet, slippery tiles of the demon’s luxurious shower.

He doesn’t bother putting back on any clothes – and, fuck, he smells just like Crowley when he walks out. The thought is enough to make his head spin and, back to a cock, he jerks himself off while sprawled on the demon’s ridiculously opulent throne chair.

“Oh goodness. Oh dear,” he mutters to himself, considering the mess he’s made and, more importantly, the fact that his erection still isn’t going down at all.

Then, a vine caresses his ankle.

Aziraphale considers it for one long moment. He knows Crowley’s plants love him, would he be taking advantage if…

Well.

What if he was very clear about feeling nothing more than genuine affection for them?

What if he only let them do whatever they wanted to him, asking for nothing?

_Well._

Doesn’t it sound perfectly reasonable?

🌿

“I-I can explain!” He gasps as Crowley walks in, then immediately moans obscenely as a vine caresses his neck and another tightens around his hard cock.

The demon stands perfectly still for a few moments, and Aziraphale can just picture him blinking slowly behind those dark glasses of his.

Then, Crowley takes in a deep breath, raises his shoulders almost up to his ears… and shrugs.

“Better not,” the demon says, as he begins undressing.


	4. Green Thumb (part 2 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This exists only because you, the people, asked for it.
> 
> Did you think I wouldn't sit down and deadass write you 2k of extra plantfuckery??
> 
> I regret _nothing_.

Crowley leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor and licks his lips. Aziraphale looks absolutely edible hanging upside down, a drop of sweat slowly sliding down his spine towards the nape of his neck. A fat vine twists between his butt cheeks, and his bound legs twitch helplessly at every thrust.

“Crowley… ah…”

The demon circles him, admires the wet, reddened head of the angel’s cock poking out from the green currently wrapped around it, steadily jerking him off.

Crowley scoffs. “It might be the first time I’m proud of my plants,” he mutters to himself. He bites down on his lower lip as his gaze travels along the angel’s trembling body and then off to the side of the room, to the deflated succulent in a corner. “Had a run in with Raph, didn’t you?”

“Raph?” Aziraphale pants out, then whimpers as a vine rolls against his left nipple.

Crowley nods, a smirk slowly taking over his face. “My infernal Rafflesia. Very useful plant. I’ll explain later. So,” he runs a hand from Aziraphale’s knee to his hip, over sleek skin and slowly squirming vines, and squeezes. His tone changes drastically when he raises his head and glares at the intricate maze of foliage and branches currently occupying his ceiling. “Lower him a few inches.”

Nothing happens. 

Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “What’s thi _sss_? Are you actually di _sss_ obeying me? You u _sss_ ele _sss_ , limp, homewrecking—”

“My dear,” Aziraphale interrupts, a smaller vine creeping along his cheek, “t-they might be a little intimidated by y— _uhhh_.” He says the last word as his mouth is tugged open by the cheeky creeper, no different than Crowley has done before with his finger.

The demon has never been so furious and aroused at the same time in his long, long existence.

He mumbles something under his breath. Aziraphale replies around the vine in his mouth with something that sounds like, ‘what was that, Crowley?’

“Plea _sss_ e lower him a few inche _sss_ , I _sss_ aid.”

This time, after some rustling, the plants cooperate, bringing Aziraphale down so that his face is level with the demon’s embarrassingly hard cock. Another small vine sneaks down the angel’s cheek, joins the first one in his mouth. Together, one on each corner of his lips, they keep his mouth wide open for Crowley to take.

The demon decides that he'll consider forgiving his plants, this time around.

He takes a timid step forward, feels Aziraphale’s hot breath ghosting on the tip of his cock and breathes in through clenched teeth. He doesn’t fail to notice that the angel’s own cock is now within reach of his lips too, the vines pulling back and leaving it bare and glistening.

“Angel,” he grits out, “i-is this all right? I don’t think I’ll be able to stop if I—”

“ _Yes_ ,” answers Aziraphale’s voice, directly into his head. A smart idea, Crowley has to admit, as it’d be hard for the angel to actually talk right now. “ _Go ahead, Crowley, please. Don’t keep me waiting._ ”

“Fuck,” the demon swallows, takes the last step forward, and sinks easily into the angel’s waiting mouth, wet and velvet soft and hot as hellfire.

“ _Oh, yes…_ ” Aziraphale says in his head, and Crowley has to grip the angel’s hip to stop himself from already thrusting hard into him. He takes a deep breath. He looks down, down past his lover’s perfect little pink nipples, down at the pale column of Aziraphale’s neck, at the delicate muscles under the skin of his throat tensing as the angel tries, uselessly, to swallow around him, around his cock and the two fat vines filling his mouth.

Crowley grinds his teeth as he begins to move. Not that Aziraphale is ever _neat_ about this – but there is something exceptionally filthy about rubbing himself between Aziraphale’s tongue and the roof of his mouth while flanked by sleek, rubbery vines on either side. They’re soft but firm, warm, and they’ve just decided to start _pulsing_ against him.

Aziraphale’s voice, in his head, keeps calling to him, egging him on, telling him how much he's enjoying this – as if Crowley couldn't already tell from the angel's obscene, shameless moans smothered against the cock in his mouth. The demon curses himself for being so impossibly turned on by the whole thing.

He feels Aziraphale's spit dribbling past the angel's lips, down along the base of his cock, down to his balls.

Crowley shatters like glass.

With a growl, he chokes himself on Aziraphale’s cock, hears the angel's gasp and keeps going, sinks his nails into Aziraphale’s arse and spreads him wide, lets the fat vine penetrating him reach deeper inside.

The voice in his head has turned into a litany of _yes, Crowley, yes, yes,_ over and over, and Crowley reaches down, runs his thumb along the angel’s stretched lower lip, along the vine soaked with spit twisting and squirming against his cock – and he’s done for.

A long, low moan tears from his throat around the angel’s cock, and suddenly he's coming, his whole body ringing with pleasure, filling Aziraphale’s mouth with wet pulse after wet pulse. He pulls back as soon as he realises – makes even more of a mess, paints white streaks from the angel’s chin to his cheeks to his forehead.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, fuck fuck _fuck_ —” Crowley drops to his knees and grabs his discarded shirt to dab at Aziraphale’s face, gasps and almost drops it when the angel’s tongue dips out to taste it, seeking out every last drop of it. Crowley runs a hand over his own face as Aziraphale hums in pleasure. “Angel, you just can’t do things like that…”

“You know, Crowley,” the creepers leave Aziraphale’s mouth a moment before he speaks, and the demon has to squint and wonder just how much control his angel has over them. “I think I might be a little tired of hanging upside down now.”

As he speaks, the vines holding him up begin to shift. When they stop, Aziraphale’s body is parallel to the ground, his front to the ceiling. His hands are no longer tied behind his back, instead they’re on either side of his head, and he’s holding onto the vines as if they were swing chains.

Crowley’s lips twitch into a smile – he can’t believe he thought, for a brief moment, that Aziraphale wasn’t running this whole circus. The angel moves among those vines elegantly and confidently, like a bloody trapeze artist, and Crowley smiles like the completely, smitten lovesick fool that he is.

Then, the vines wrapped around Aziraphale’s legs pull the angel’s knees up and spread his legs wide open, and Crowley forgets once again how to form coherent thought.

Since refractory periods are for demons who aren’t madly in love with the most gluttonous, spoiled, beautiful angel there is, Crowley opts out of his and strokes his cock to full hardness in the span of a few seconds.

Aziraphale tugs on the vines in his hands to lift up his shoulders enough to lock eyes with Crowley. The angel gives him a wobbly little smile, pleasure-drunk and maybe trying to be embarrassed at his current state for appearances' sake – and failing completely.

It’s fine. Crowley doesn’t want him to be ashamed. Crowley wants him to enjoy himself as much as he possibly can, so he steps forward and gives the creeper currently sliding between Aziraphale’s butt cheeks a little slap.

“My turn now,” he says and, as soon as the plant’s out of the way, he pushes in, finding Aziraphale slick and open for him.

The angel gives out a little breathy moan, and Crowley sees the creepers responding to it by beginning to stretch towards him. They touch Crowley’s hips almost shyly, waiting for permission, or maybe expecting to be shouted at.

Crowley figures he might as well let it happen at this point.

“Come on,” he tells his plants, and he does feel a little pang of guilt at how eagerly, how happily they wrap around his waist, wanting nothing more than to please him (kind of rings a bell, doesn’t it?) “Good. Nicely done.”

The vines shake in an altogether different way from what he’s used to seeing when he screams at them.

Do his plants have a fucking praise kink?

Crowley decides that’s a question to file away for another time and focus on the task at hand.

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to do much at all. Aziraphale manoeuvres his vine swing with grace, like some noble lady in a rococo painting, and fucks himself on Crowley’s cock over and over like the wonderfully hungry thing he is.

Crowley wraps his long fingers around the angel’s erection, gives it a few, sure tugs. He flashes Aziraphale a toothy smirk as he closes his other hand tightly around his plump thigh.

“Are you holding back on me?” He asks, already knowing the answer. His hand speeds up and his smile spreads on his face. His voice drops to a growl. “Come on, angel. You’ve had your fun. Let me _sss_ ee you, now.”

Aziraphale hides his face in the crook of his arm instead, and Crowley can’t help the wave of love that washes over him at the sight – his angel, stubborn to the very end.

The unexpected happens, then: a vine takes Aziraphale’s chin, turns him back towards Crowley. Two more wrap around the angel’s chest and slide against his nipples. One tugs at his hair. Another sneaks itself down and caresses his balls with a slick, wet sound.

Aziraphale only looks surprised for a split second, then he's shutting his eyes tightly and coming hard, and Crowley helps him through it with a grin on his face, works him through desperate shudder after desperate shudder, then forgets about it when the delicious, relentless clenching around his cock rips a second orgasm out of him that makes his knees buckle.

The angel leans back with a satisfied, spent sigh, and the vines gently lower him to the ground. Crowley is glad they hold him up a second longer before letting him go, as his legs feel extremely wobbly right now. Aziraphale steps forward immediately, burying his face against Crowley’s neck and holding him close.

“Oh, darling, that was magnificent.”

“Yeah,” Crowley’s voice sounds hoarse and rough to his own ears, “let’s get you cleaned up now. And I could use a nap.”

Aziraphale smiles and nods, takes exactly two steps towards Crowley’s bathroom before gasping and stopping.

“What?” Crowley asks, an eyebrow raised. But he can easily guess, considering the blush on Aziraphale’s face and his encounter with the demonic plant. “I’m going to find a mess in there,” he nods towards the bedroom, “aren't I?”

“I’m so sorry, dear. It was that plant, I didn’t mean to—it just wouldn’t g-go down no matter what I did, so I... well, it really is quite the dangerous addition to your lovely little forest, if I may—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, a small smile playing on his lips, “the plant only helps you lean into whatever it is you wanted in the first place. That’s how my job works, you of all people should know better.”

He kisses Aziraphale on the top of his blessed head, runs a hand through his mussed curls.

“For my money, as soon as it realised what you wanted it gave you a little, uh, ‘mechanical’ help. Nothing more.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale replies, flushing scarlet, “well… maybe so. Either way, about that bubble bath—”

“I did not mention a bath, and surely I did not mention any bubbles.”

“Do you perhaps have any of that marvellous lavender foaming bath left…”

The plants watch them leave as they slowly go back to their places. A little mopey, maybe, but happy to have participated.

Aziraphale stops just before walking into the bathroom, turns around, and calls back, “thank you, you were all an absolute delight!” before Crowley drags him towards the bathtub.

The plants shake happily in their pots. Some of them, quietly, bloom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that you've made it this far, you should absolutely listen to [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quefish) doing a drunk storytime reading of [these last two chapters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZTGVTWi0t4). You owe it to yourself.
> 
> My friend [Djap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan) also [made podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929183) of this!!


	5. Probably Not Venomous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Crowley's snakey habits.

The first time it happens, Aziraphale blinks and it’s gone. It’s a weird, wet feeling on the left side of his neck, but it disappears so quickly he pays it no mind.

The second time it happens, Aziraphale turns around to try and catch sight of it – whatever _it_ is – but there’s nothing there. Only Crowley’s beautiful face, flushed red with exertion as he thrusts into Aziraphale from behind. It’s quite easy to get distracted and forget all about it.

The third time it happens, Aziraphale puts his metaphorical foot down and reaches up with his literal hand to grasp at it. And his fingers close around something smooth, hot, damp, something that squirms wildly in his hand. A long, wine-red snake tongue.

“What’s this?” He asks, somewhat dumbly, as Crowley stills the frantic push of his hips for a moment.

“ _May phongue?_ ” Crowley tries to reply.

“Oh,” the angel quickly lets go of it, “so sorry.”

“Nah, I apologise, I didn’t mean to do it,” he strokes the angel’s side as his tongue recedes to take on a more human-like shape, “come on, we weren’t done yet.”

“Wait,” Aziraphale says, squirming out of his grasp and letting Crowley’s cock slide right out of him. The demon groans but lets him go and sits back on his haunches, averting his gaze and scratching the side of his neck.

“Listen, angel, I’ll be more careful, it doesn’t have to be a whole _thing_ —”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts, “we haven’t stopped the end of the world to hide things from each other. Please, show me.”

Crowley raises both eyebrows at the request. “Show you what?”

“All of it,” the angel replies, without a moment’s thought.

“All of it?” Crowley croaks out.

Aziraphale nods, determined. “All of it.”

🐍

So Crowley stands, his dark wings seemingly enormous in their small bedroom, his golden eyes yellow from corner to corner, his pearly fangs sticking out of his mouth, a scattering of scarlet scales climbing up his ankles all the way to his knees, the nails on his hands and feet turned to sharp black claws.

And Aziraphale’s gaze fixed between his legs.

“What are… those?” The angel asks, not even bothering to raise his eyes to Crowley’s face.

“Huh?” The demon looks down at himself. “Ah. My hemipenes.”

“Your... I bet your pardon?” Aziraphale blinks.

“Dicks, angel. My dicks. Two of them.” Crowley lets out a deep sigh. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted. Now the angel’s never going to want to have sex with him again and he’ll be left with plenty of material to wank himself blind until the next Apocalypse—

“And they… do they function just like your… er, your usual one does?” Aziraphale licks his lips.

“ _Nnnggyeah_?” Crowley tries to reply, taking a step back. “Quite?”

“So when you’re done with one, you could, say… switch to the other and continue?” The angel asks, nibbling on his bottom lip as he waits for a reply.

“Uh,” Crowley takes another step back and his wings hit the closet with a soft thud, “suppose so, yeah.”

“Crowley, get back on the bed,” Aziraphale says, leaning back onto the mattress. “Oh my, where are my manners? _Please_ get back on the bed, dear.”

Crowley swallows and obeys.

🐍

Much, much later, Crowley lies on his back completely and utterly spent, panting hard, his hair and feathers ruffled, his skin glistening with sweat, and Aziraphale basks in the afterglow like a well-fed house-cat.

He rests his cheek over Crowley’s shoulder and walks his fingers up the demon’s chest.

“Say, dearest…” he begins to ask, but the demon grabs his hand and stares him down.

“No, Aziraphale, before you ask, my bite is probably not venomous, I will not shed in the bathtub, and I won’t spend the winter hibernating somewhere.”

Aziraphale giggles. “Oh, I wasn’t going to ask such weird questions.”

“Ah, sorry,” Crowley relaxes back onto the mattress, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand. “Bit on edge, with this whole snake thing… go ahead, shoot.”

“I just had a single, very simple request…”

The angel slowly traces small, egg-shaped circles on Crowley’s chest.


	6. Show Me Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Eldrict horror forms

For all his perfunctory grumbling about how much time Aziraphale wastes ‘doing inventory’ with the shelves never looking any more organised _at all_ , Crowley is quite happy to sit back and watch the angel putter around the bookshop.

It’s a lazy Sunday kind of day (Crowley has no idea what day of the week it actually is) and, after the first couple of hours, he’s made himself at home on the angel’s obscenely soft couch. He’s currently lying languidly all over it, limbs having taken a particularly liquid quality as he tilts his head back over the armrest and looks at Aziraphale upside-down.

The fact that he’s excessively comfortable has no bearing on his decision to keep poking at his angel like a bored cat pawing at a spring door stopper just because he likes the boingy sound it makes.

“It’s been _hours_ , angel,” he groans, “they’ll have invented flying cars by the time you’re finished.”

Aziraphale’s face turns momentarily a bit green at the thought of Crowley having access to a car that can lift off the ground. “I’m almost done, dear.”

“You said you were ‘almost done’ an hour ago.” Crowley purses his lips and lets out a long sigh.

“What about if I buy you dinner once I’m finished?” Aziraphale asks with a little smile, and the demon replies with a noise that means ‘fine, whatever, I would wait here for you even if I was getting nothing out of it except the pleasure of your company, but I hate sounding excessively sentimental so you get a groan instead’. It sounds something like ‘meh’.

“By the way, Aziraphale,” Crowley plants a foot into the couch to be able to push himself a bit farther out, his spine bending backwards around the armrest in a way that is a touch unnatural, “I was thinking. You know, I’ve never seen your… _actual_ form. All of it, that is.”

Aziraphale pauses for a moment, a book he was putting on a shelf hanging mid-air in his hand. “I, well… I hardly think that’s a good idea, Crowley.”

“Why not?” Somehow, from his impossible position on the couch, Crowley shrugs. “I’ll make sure no one’s around.” He brings two fingers to his temple, closes his eyes for a moment. “There. All the humans in a one-mile radius have realised they accidentally left the oven on and have to go home.”

“What about the ones who live here in Soho?”

“They left the oven on at a friend’s house.”

“What if the friend also lives—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley cuts him off, “they’re gone, is the point.”

“Fine, yes.” The angel wrings his hands, sucking in a breath. “I suppose there is no reason not to show you, particularly after we’ve…”

Aziraphale doesn’t say it, but Crowley hears it all the same: after they’ve become much more intimate than ever before, on every possible level.

The angel clears his throat. “Well,” he says, and adjusts his jacket. Crowley waits with bated breath.

At first, it’s nothing but light. It fills the whole of the bookshop, and Crowley shuts his eyes behind his dark glasses. He can feel it on his skin, pressing him down into the couch. His mouth drops open, and he barely swallows back a low purr. It feels like being completely enveloped in Aziraphale’s warmth, brighter than any spot of sun he’s ever basked in. Soft but firm, somehow both welcoming and unbearable.

When he opens his eyes again, still looking at the angel upside-down, Aziraphale’s shape shifts under his gaze. One moment he’s a proud golden lion, roaring loudly into the quiet of the bookshop, the next he’s a beautiful eagle, stretching his wings far and wide, then he’s a majestic ox, all powerful muscle and bone-white horns – and finally he’s himself again, three sets of glorious white wings behind his back, his eyes alight with pale blue fire.

Aziraphale’s eyes – suddenly, they’re everywhere. Not _physically_ , but everywhere all the same. They see all of Crowley, every part of him, every little thing he’s swallowed down and buried away. Crowley feels exposed and raw, pinned to the spot with nowhere to hide – and fuck it, he’s thoroughly enjoying himself, a sigh low in his throat as he lets himself be _seen_ like never before.

There’s something to be said about feeling like a small rock getting tossed around in a storm. Crowley decides not to think too hard about why that feeling appeals to him so much.

The bookshop falls away around him, they’re catapulted into space, stars and galaxies and the deep, dark, comfortingly loud silence of the universe around them. Aziraphale is eternal fire and infinite sets of wings and _eyes_ , so many _eyes_ , on every dimensions and plane of reality, he’s burning and beautiful and powerful, and Crowley hisses in pleasure between his lips (does he still have lips?) as all that angelic essence rubs and burns against his demonic energy, leaving him sizzling and thrashing and blind with pleasure and—

“Crowley?”

Crowley opens his eyes to a very concerned angelic face looking down on him. They’re back in the bookshop, maybe never moved at all. His back is still unnaturally curled around the armrest, the only thing that feels damply different is—

“Did you just…” Aziraphale blinks, gaze darting to Crowley’s crotch for a moment, “my dear, did you just… trouser off in your pants?”

Crowley winces. “Please, please don’t call it that.” He pulls himself up on both elbows, watching the wet stain spread across his clothing. Would be a tad hard to deny it, wouldn’t it? “Uh. Perhaps?”

“Oh my,” Aziraphale says, covering his mouth in quiet shock.

“Look,” Crowley lifts up a hand, “I’ll clean this up in a snap and we can pretend this never happened, I’ll just—”

“Wait!” The angel exclaims, stopping Crowley’s fingers with his own. “I-I rather think, instead, you should… well, show me yours. So to speak.”

Crowley blinks exactly once, and doesn’t miss the nervous, quick swipe of Aziraphale’s tongue between his lips. “Right,” he grins, tilting his head to the side until his neck gives a gentle crack, “let’s.”


	7. A Wandering Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: interesting uses for a flaming sword.

Crowley’s brain had a tendency to wander.

This wasn’t, generally speaking, a problem. Sure, sometimes he’d pick back up a conversation they’d had hours ago, and sometimes he’d remember random facts at the most inopportune moments, and occasionally it could be a little hard to follow his train of thought, but mostly Aziraphale didn’t mind. He’d known Crowley for thousands of years and had come to accept this was just part of who the demon was. Besides, he had much more irritating quirks than this, to be totally honest.

However, for all that Aziraphale was an Angel of the Lord and therefore should have been gifted with unlimited, preternatural patience, some things were just a tad too much for him to bear.

Like when Crowley was sitting on the settee, butt-naked, thighs spread open and Aziraphale in his lap, the angel’s back against his chest, and they were having a rather lovely time indeed – although getting themselves in that position had required a frivolous miracle or two.

Aziraphale was thoroughly enjoying himself, a hand ruffling Crowley’s hair in a way the demon only allowed under certain intimate circumstances. He was feeling very satisfied with himself, as he’d been a little naughty and kept his body a bit _tighter_ than it needed to be, therefore revelling in the delicious sting that came with Crowley fucking up into him from below. Crowley’s cock wasn’t particularly girthy, but the demon was _so_ _eager_ to please. Truth be told, Crowley was always so wonderful – a generous, attentive lover, even more caring than Aziraphale had imagined in the long, long centuries he’d spent wondering if Crowley loved him back, and if that love could have possibly lead to getting meticulously buggered every other day.

Crowley had a hand wrapped around the angel’s cock, tugging rhythmically and twisting his hand a bit whenever he got to the head, so Aziraphale can be forgiven if he did not pay any attention when Crowley started muttering something under his breath.

“W-what?” The angel asked, eyes fluttering closed with each thrust.

Crowley grunted. “I said, no wonder you almost forgot the sword.”

The—the sword? Aziraphale made an effort to concentrate and force himself to think straight – something he’d never been very good at.

“Sword? What sword?” He panted out.

“Your sword,” Crowley replied, not stopping his ministrations at all, though he sounded a little breathless, “when the delivery man came for it, in Tadfield?”

Aziraphale arched his back to be able to take him deeper and tightened his grip into Crowley’s hair. “What about it?” He gritted out, not without some difficulty.

“You were sitting on it,” Crowley explained, as if it made perfect sense. “Rather big sword, isn’t it? Always wondered how you could sit your arse right on it and not notice at all.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale turned around as much as he could, considering the circumstances, and _smiled_. His eyebrow twitched. “I am of the opinion that we can continue this conversation later. Now,” he clenched around Crowley’s cock, and was very satisfied to hear a faint whimper behind him, “let’s finish what we started, or I swear to Somebody I will find a way to get my sword back and show you a very improper use of it.”

“Right. Yes. Fair,” Crowley nodded hurriedly, and Aziraphale could swear the threat made Crowley even harder inside him. “Later. Yes. Sure.”


	8. A Little Leaning Is a Dangerous Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: historical events.

Here’s the thing.

By the 12th century, Crowley has figured out that Aziraphale, given the chance, prefers to reside in the countries that will later come to be known as United Kingdom, France, and Germany.

Crowley, on the other hand, enjoys a warmer climate and any place where he can, every now and again, walk on a sandy beach and dip his toes into the sea – true to his snake nature.

So it takes some convincing to get Aziraphale to pop across the Alps for a spot of dinner by the seaside in Tuscany. Crowley has to promise the fanciest wines available, the best meal the angel has ever had, and, of course, a passionate night together to make up for the trouble.

Here’s another thing.

Aziraphale did not easily agree to the Arrangement. Oh, no. Stubborn thing that he is, he agreed much more easily to ‘trying out all the accessories these corporations have to offer’, as Crowley cleverly put it, than he agreed to do a demon’s job – and let a demon do some blessings in his place.

It was actually in bed, under the ministrations of Crowley’s quick tongue, that Aziraphale finally sighed out a ‘yes, yes I will attempt to do a temptation, but just this once’. Which then turned into ‘but we’ll only do this twice’, and then into ‘but this is the last time’, and finally into ‘but never again’. Which, as Crowley had found out while rolling under the sheets together, actually meant they’d _most_ _definitely_ do it again.

Crowley keeps his word. He’s dressed to the nines, a long scarlet cape on his back, leather boots up to his knees and long red curls down to his shoulders.

All worth it, for the look Aziraphale – elegantly draped in whites and silvers – gives him when he arrives.

The food is spectacular; the wine has them on the good side of tipsy in no time at all. And then, they get into Crowley’s carriage for a surprise the demon has planned ahead – he brings Aziraphale to a glorious new monument that’s just been finished, not yet open to the public.

It has exactly the intended effect – the angel’s face lights up as he marvels at the white marble; he beams at Crowley as he walks up the winding stairs of the brand new tower. When Aziraphale turns away, Crowley grins in the shadows, internally congratulating himself on a job well done.

They stop on the seventh floor, in the ceiling-less bell-chamber. There, with the night sky above their heads and the sight of the city below them, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, says, “I’ve changed my mind. This is just marvellous, Crowley, you’ve really outdone yourself. Let me, instead…”

And so Crowley does.

He ends up with his back against the wall, fingers grasping at smooth bricks as Aziraphale slowly, leisurely pistons his hips up and into him. He can hear nothing except Aziraphale whispering praise in his ear as the cicadas sing in the distance, can see nothing except the blurry shapes of the distant stars above them as he clings to the angel’s back.

He loses track of time – it’s been ten minutes or two hours, he’s not sure, he just knows he’s desperate when he finally crosses his ankles behind Aziraphale’s back and forces him closer, rasps out, “please, please faster, m’gonna die, angel, please…”

There is a little evil glint in Aziraphale’s eyes before he proceeds to give Crowley exactly what he asked for – and much more than that.

💫

The next morning, they wake up in the makeshift bed Crowley miracled for them to a beautiful sunrise. Aziraphale smiles and says, “time to get back to work”, and Crowley grumbles but agrees, standing up and gathering his long hair into a ponytail.

They walk down the stairs together, Crowley still yawning and rubbing his eyes, and they’re both taken aback when they step outside and realise a small crowd has gathered outside the tower.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale asks a random man, “whatever is the matter?”

He gets a glare and a rude gesture, because the man does not speak English. Crowley translates for him.

The man points at the tower, tilting his head to the side.

Aziraphale and Crowley turn around and they, too, tilt their head to the side.

Just like the tower is now leaning to the side.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmurs faintly, “is that… did we…”

“Yup,” confirms Crowley. “That’s exactly the direction I was getting f—”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cuts him off, “good Lord. Oh no, oh dear. What happens now?”

“Ah, don’t worry about it, angel,” Crowley says, shrugging his shoulders, “I’m sure in a few centuries people will think it’s nice and come in droves to visit. Take silly pictures with the ‘leaning tower’ and all that jazz.”

“Oh, come on,” Aziraphale replies as he begins to walk away from the mess they’ve made, “now that’s just ridiculous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I fudged the timeline completely - the Tower of Pisa was actually built over the course of two centuries and started to lean almost immediately, way before it was even completed.  
> However, no one's really sure who the architect was, and therefore who's responsible for the flawed design, and I'm choosing to believe Crowley had a hand in burying any evidence and making sure nobody got blamed for his own sexapades.


	9. Bibliophilia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: sentient books/bookshelves and the horrors they’ve seen.
> 
> Heavily inspired by [these (nsfw) artworks](https://chamyl.tumblr.com/post/188404168054/notyoursaviour-la-letra-con-amor-entra-via). 
> 
> No imaginary books were harmed in the making of this chapter. They consent to... well, everything Aziraphale puts them through.

There has been some debate, over the course of human history, as to whether people should or should not indulge in masturbation. At first, everyone seemed to think that it was a good thing, and then, later on, changed their tune and decided that it was a bad thing. Then it became _absolutely_ a _very_ _bad thing_ to be doing that would send you straight to Hell. And then, finally, a good thing again.

Maybe.

There has been no such debate concerning angels. This is mostly to be attributed to the fact that they are believed to be sexless and genderless, lacking genitals unless they really make an effort, and therefore untouched by such mortal urges.

Exception made for one particular angel, who’s spent way more time than it would be advisable wondering whether he should or should not give it a try, ever since first seeing a human getting down to it and, apparently, enjoying herself very much.

If Aziraphale’s books could talk, they’d have a lot to say on the matter.

They would tell you all about how the angel never quite learned to sleep, and spent many long nights repeating the same pattern.

It would start with the demon Crowley leaving the bookshop after an evening spent drinking and laughing together. Aziraphale would close the door behind him and sigh, a dreamy smile on his face.

Then he’d get sad.

Then, he’d finish the rest of the scotch by himself.

Then he’d grab a book – any book he’d been reading recently, and open it in his lap.

“Oh, I really do wonder sometimes…” he’d say, slowly running the tip of his middle finger along the binding, keeping the book spread open with his index and ring fingers, “what it would feel like,” he’d confess with a sigh to his books, as he sat there with one of them in his lap and caressed its pages ever so gently.

“Do you think he’d be rough?” He’d ask, and his books would rustle slightly in reply, “oh, you’re right, of course. He wouldn’t be rough at all. No, he’d be so careful… so attentive to my every need, wouldn’t he?”

He’d run his splayed fingers on the yellowed pages, their smell vanilla-sweet with age, and he’d moan quietly in the silence of the bookshop.

“I think he would take his time. Oh… oh good Lord, I really think he would. Hmm,” he’d press his thighs close together, biting on his bottom lip for a moment, “and then he’d—oh, oh God.”

He’d close the book then, but keep a finger inside. He’d push it in and out, in and out, over and over, slowly at first and then harder, and his breathing would become more laboured, his cheeks more flushed. His books would be his only witnesses and accomplices.

He’d stop abruptly, at some point, and tenderly put the book aside. He’d press a hand between his legs, feel the wetness there for a moment before pulling away.

“I can’t… I _shouldn’t_ ,” he’d mutter, and little did it matter that most of the books around him disagreed – they’d all seen this movie before. At this point, Aziraphale would stand, sober up, go upstairs, and take a long, cold shower. Then he’d come back down, looking like his usual composed self.

“Right,” he’d clap his hands together, “what was I doing before that wily demon distracted me?”

📚

The day after the Apocalypse that didn’t happen, Aziraphale and Crowley came back to the bookshop having finished celebrating at the Ritz. It couldn’t, in all honesty, be said that it was a coincidence when, and as soon as Crowley stepped through the front door of the shop, all the books with explicit or even vaguely suggestive titles tossed themselves to the floor, tumbling at his feet.

Crowley picked them up and quickly connected the dots under Aziraphale’s horrified gaze. The demon grinned, took Aziraphale by the wrist, and led him upstairs.

As he let himself be taken away for what was going to be the most exciting night of his existence this far, the angel turned back around and, very quietly, mouthed a choked-up _thank you_ to his precious books.


	10. Bang up to the Elephant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Aziraphale learns modern slang and uses it in the worst and most incorrect ways possible.
> 
> Listen, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, I’ve written this in about half an hour, I’m juggling three different kinds of English in this chapter (and I don’t even speak English to begin with!), and AO3 went down for a while rather than letting me post this monstrosity.
> 
> Consider yourselves warned.

Look, loving someone does not mean loving every single thing they do. Ask Crowley about it.

In fact, loving someone for a long time means knowing all their little quirks all too well, including the ones that make you go absolutely bonkers. Especially if you’ve loved your special someone for 6000 long years, like Crowley has.

So, when Aziraphale walked in one day and told him, “my dear, I’ve decided it’s time to spruce up my vocabulary,” the demon’s first reaction was a couple of sounds that sounded suspiciously like ‘ _uh-oh’._

Crowley, sprawled on the bookshop’s couch, cleared his throat and followed his initial statement with a rather more sensible, “I… what?” and braced himself, waiting for the reply.

“I’m saying that I would like to try to adopt some more modern terms and idioms. Now that we’re retired,” Aziraphale explained, unhelpfully.

“Uh,” Crowley raised an eyebrow, “so you’re not going to ask me anymore if I’d like to _tickle our innards_[1] with some _neck oil_[2], angel?”

“This is no laughing matter, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished him as he passed him by to turn the sign on the bookshop’s door to _closed_ , “I really think we ought to be able to blend in a little better with the humans, now that we’re on our own. Besides, you know I much prefer wine to beer.”

“Course,” Crowley said, hopping off the couch and crowding Aziraphale against a bookshelf. Whenever the angel closed up shop, Crowley had come to expect his daily dose of cuddles with a chance of making-out. Every day, he would patiently waite for the angel to be officially off the clock before making his advances – insomuch as a terrible bookseller such as Aziraphale could ever be considered ‘on the clock’, anyway.

What Crowley didn’t know, as Aziraphale ran a fond hand through his red hair and a fonder hand along the demon’s left butt cheek, was that the angel had asked Adam Young to help him. Aziraphale had inquired as to whether there was some sort of _portable telephone devilry_ that would keep him _up to date with the youngsters’ manner of speaking_.

Adam had thought it very funny to take Aziraphale’s barely used mobile phone and make him a TikTok account.

💬

They were both completely naked and Crowley was straddling the angel and sucking up a purple mark on his neck, when Aziraphale just had to ruin a perfectly pleasant moment by saying, “Oh my dear… yes… yes… _go off_ , this is so _extra_.”

Crowley tried. Crowley tried really, really hard to be _turned off_ by that. But his cock twitched helplessly in response. He’d suspected this for a while, but it seemed that, somehow, the more absurd the angel’s abuse of the English language got, the more his body responded.

But two could play that game. And it was time for Crowley to pull out the big guns.

“Oh, angel… that _quail pipe **[3]** _of yours truly makes me feel _not up to dick **[4]**_ ,” he growled, trying to ignore the part of his brain that was cringing _hard_ at his irresponsible use of Victorian slang. He didn’t, however, miss the enraptured look on the angel’s face, nor his little moan of delight.

But Aziraphale had always been stubborn, and kept going, “that’s _highkey_ _fire_ , my dearest. Although your Victorian English could use some brushing up, _no cap_.”

Crowley understood just enough of that word salad to figure out he’d been insulted. “You’re a real champion of _podsnappery **[5]**_ tonight, _chuckaboo **[6]**_.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, bucking up into him, “come on now, don’t be _salty_ , you’re _slaying_ this, _periodt_.”

Somehow, the angel was hard as anything. And somehow, Crowley realised with a mix of horror and wonder, he was too. In fact, he was rubbing up against Aziraphale’s hot, flushed skin just as hard as the angel was moving against him.

“I’m going to _take the egg **[7]**_ tonight, angel, if it’s the last thing I do.” He tried to hold back his orgasm, even though he could feel it thrumming under his skin. “And you’re going to _shoot into the brown **[8]**_ , I hope that’s _umble-cum-stumble **[9]**_.”

“Crowley, yes, yes, yes…!” Aziraphale gasped, letting go completely and coming between their bodies with a long wail. He grabbed the demon’s ass with both hands and squeezed, and Crowley had his own orgasm punched out of him, putting an end to their linguistic guerrilla.

Or so he thought.

Aziraphale kissed the side of his mouth, brushed the hair away from his forehead as Crowley caught his breath. Then, the angel looked at him, beaming, and said, “that was absolutely _lit._ ”

“Angel,” Crowley grunted, “shut that _sauce-box **[10]**_ right now or we’re never doing this again.”

“Oh, so we’ll do it again?” Aziraphale asked, lighting up like a Christmas tree about to be taken down by a cute cat in a viral vine.

“ _Skimalink **[11]**_ ,” Crowley replied, “unless I’m a lot more _arf’arf’an’arf **[12]**_ than I am tonight.”

“ _Wig_!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and Crowley could only sigh, clean them up with a wave of his hand, and fall asleep, never more relieved than they weren’t under surveillance from Up Above or Down Below anymore.

[1] Have a drink

[2] Beer

[3] Tongue

[4] Unwell

[5] Smug self-satisfaction and a lack of interest in the affairs of others

[6] Dear friend

[7] Win

[8] Fail

[9] Understood

[10] Mouth

[11] Doubtful

[12] Drunk


	11. The Hardest Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: South Downs Cottage: after the apocalypse that was not, Aziraphale and Crowley settle down in a house together. However... they realize just how odd the other’s living habits are!
> 
> WARNING for undernegotiated somnophilia.

Crowley had often tried to imagine what sharing a home with Aziraphale would be like.

He’d pictured himself suddenly knowing how to cook, maybe even bringing breakfast in bed to his angel. He’d imagined lazy summer afternoons spent napping on the sofa while Aziraphale read through some dusty old book, perfectly comfortable on his beloved old armchair.

In his most tender, secret moments, Crowley had envisioned sharing a bed at night, had fantasized about how the angel would cup his cheeks in his hands, gently kiss his closed eyelids, and wish him a goodnight.

He had never pictured he’d wake up every morning with a stiff dick pressed hard against his arse.

The first time it happened, Crowley had grinned.

“Somebody woke up in a good mood today, eh?” He’d said, turning around only to find Aziraphale fast asleep, snoring softly, the perfect picture of immaculate innocence. Taken aback, the demon had blinked at his sleeping lover a few times, and then slowly turned back, quite unsure about how to proceed here. Was he supposed to wake him up? Was he supposed to move away from him? Somehow, both those options seemed rude. And it’s not like it was unpleasant or anything. Quite the contrary, really.

What Crowley ended up doing was trying and failing to fall asleep again, feeling more than a little hot under the collar. Until Aziraphale had stirred, kissed him on the cheek, and murmured a still sleepy, completely clueless, _'good morning, dearest mine’._

The next day, Crowley woke up from a charming dream in which the angel had him bent in two, trapped against the wall, and was pounding into him so hard he was cracking tiles with the force of his thrusts. The demon woke up, predictably, with a stiffy trapped inside his silk pyjama bottoms. And, unpredictably, with a hard cock pressing against his buttocks.

Seriously, what was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to wake Aziraphale up and tell him? Should he let him sleep? It’s not as if the angel was doing this on purpose. _Probably_. Trapped in this uncertainty, Crowley resolved to very quietly, and very politely, rub one out as quickly as possible, biting down into his pillow as to avoid making a single sound. And indeed, it didn’t take long at all to finish himself off, what with Aziraphale’s cock straining against his butt cheeks and the remnants of his filthy, lovely dream swirling around in his head.

When he was done, he miracled away the mess and fell back asleep.

On the third day in a row of waking up with a thick, unyielding angel prick knocking on his backdoor, Crowley wondered whether he might have been going about this all wrong. Maybe the polite thing to do here was to wake Aziraphale up – but with an orgasm. Take him in hand and stroke him off until the angel blinked himself awake, cheeks flushed and lips parted, moaning Crowley’s name.

And wasn’t that a _thought_? Crowley could feel his blood rushing quickly down south, filling up a little demonic erection of his own, and realised he’d just got himself further into trouble. As he usually did.

🥕

He held off until he really couldn’t anymore, and went as far as pausing Bridesmaids right before the good part to turn and talk to Aziraphale, who let out a relieved sigh at the blaring screeching coming from their TV abating for a moment.

“What is your opinion on sleep sex?” Crowley blurted out before he could lose courage.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale looked at him wide-eyed for a moment, then pointed towards the screen with his gold-leaf bookmark, “what part of… of _that_ ,” the angel managed to stuff so much righteous disgust into a single syllable that Crowley was surprised his damned ears didn’t burn off his head right there and then, “prompted _this_ inquiry?”

“Nothing to do with that!” Crowley rushed to say, an arm waving at the TV, “just something I’ve been wondering for a while. That’s all,” he sniffed, shifting back a little on the sofa.

“I… well,” Aziraphale closed his book, his lips twitching as he seemed to look for the right words, “is it something you’d like to try?”

“I’d be amenable, yes,” Crowley replied immediately, because _fuck_ if he wasn’t amenable, it was all he’d been able to think about the past few days – waking Aziraphale up with his hands, with his mouth, with his _body –_ catch him while he was still completely relaxed and sleep-soft, inhibitions non-existent, watch him give into pleasure with reckless abandon—

There was a serious risk he’d pop a boner right in front of Bridesmaids if he didn’t halt that train of thought real quick.

“Well then,” Aziraphale smiled, taking his lover’s hand and kissing his knuckles, “if it’s something you’re so interested in… I think we should give it a try. It could be very lovely, I reckon.”

The angel settled against Crowley’s shoulder to keep reading his book, and the demon felt his heart swelling in his chest.

And other parts of his anatomy swelling in other places.

🥕

What a wonderful dream. He was hot all over, spine arching off the mattress, fingers twisting in the sheets. He was dreaming about having two Aziraphales, one underneath him and one above him, rubbing against him and making him come over and over again. Four hands that seemed to be virtually everywhere at once, two mouths licking and biting his flushed, sensitive skin.

In a confused, hazy non sequitur that only the realm of dreams could allow, the angel underneath him was currently penetrating him, slow and deep, while the angel above him was riding him hard and fast, and Crowley was in—well, not Heaven, because Heaven sucked ass, but whatever the snake demon version of Heaven is. Yes, that’s where he was.

He felt another orgasm approaching, this one stronger than the others before it. So strong that it actually jolted him awake – so that he could take in the sight of Aziraphale’s face between his parted legs, a hand at the base of his hard cock and the other farther down, two fingers pressed inside him as the angel sucked him off.

Crowley made a choked, startled sound, which quickly turned into a moan as he put a hand on the angel’s head – because fuck, Crowley had no idea what was happening, but whatever it was it felt really fucking great, and he wouldn’t have stopped unless the cottage itself was on fire.

He came with a long, low growl, so hard he saw stars, and then fell back onto the bed, breathless and shivering and boneless in the aftershocks of his climax.

Aziraphale couldn’t hide his smile as he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and looked up at him. He crawled up to lie next to Crowley, positively beaming. The demon reached out to wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him close.

“So,” Aziraphale began, a little smirk on his face, “is that how you’d pictured it, my dear?”

“Ye… what?” Crowley replied, not really understanding and too blissed out to care.

“The… well, the ‘sleep sex’, like you put it,” Aziraphale pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “You asked about it just the other day, remember?”

Crowley ran a hand down his face, trying to unscramble his thoughts. “Aziraphale.”

“Yes?” The angel asked, frowning.

“I meant—I meant the other way around. I wanted to know if _you_ wanted to be woken up like this.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped. “Oh my. I’m so so—”

“Not that I didn’t enjoy this, mind you,” Crowley rushed to add, cutting him off, “it just isn’t what I was asking.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “But, darling… however did you come to the conclusion that this was something I wanted to try?”

“Your dick, angel,” Crowley huffed out, not without some exasperation transpiring in his voice now.

“My… what is wrong with my—with my penis now?” Aziraphale asked, looking down.

“Nothing is wrong with it! It’s just been waking me up every single morning like a _very hard_ alarm clock with no snooze button!”

“You—oh dear. Are you sure?”

“Am I sure, angel?! _Am I sure?!_ What do you think, that I forgot a big fat carrot in our bed and mistook it for your—”

“There is no need for that kind of language,” Aziraphale pointed out, and Crowley frowned, trying to do the math in his head – what part of _big fat carrot_ was dirtier than _your dick, angel_ , exactly? “I… every single morning? Really?”

Crowley decided he’d refrain from adding more noises to that mess and simply nodded in reply.

“Well, I… I’m mortified, Crowley. I sincerely apologise.” Aziraphale said with a long sigh.

“Nah, no need for that,” the demon pressed a kiss to his lover’s forehead, “I just wanted to know from you how to—er, well. How to handle it, I suppose.”

Aziraphale turned around in his arms to be able to look at him in the eyes, his sea green gaze shining with mischief. “Oh, my dear. I think you know perfectly well how to handle it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quefish) did a fucking hilarious drunk reading of this chapter, which you should absolutely [watch here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Di7l_Lq5kMs). I'm still losing my shit over this I swear.


	12. Stuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: effort catastrophies, over the years of experimenting with their efforts, things for Crowley and Aziraphale are sure to have gone wrong.
> 
> Hi hello there was no prompt last week so I made sure to go super extra feral on this one. Have...fun?

“Do you know what scissoring is?”

Crowley was far, far too deep in his cups to be able to answer that question. He made a V sign with each hand, then looked down at his fingers.

“Something to do with legs?” He asked.

“Not with _legs_ ,” Aziraphale corrected, as he tried his best to pull himself up in the seat where he seemed to have melted, “I don’t think. Wait… how do you mean?”

Crowley looked again at his hands as if they could answer that question for him. Which – they sort of did. He pushed his fingers together until the skin between his left index and middle finger touched the skin between his right index and middle finger.

Yes. That looked right.

Aziraphale frowned at this little demonstration. “Wouldn’t that be just regular intercourse?”

“No no,” Crowley assured him, even though he was feeling less certain about his point by the second, “you’re thinking with penis—penises. Penii? _Dicks._ You’re thinking with dicks. No dicks here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied, tilting his head to the side as he stared hard at Crowley’s hands. “Not a one?”

“None at all,” Crowley confirmed, vaguely rocking his hands up and down in the most awkward handshake he’d ever had.

“Wouldn’t that be… well.” The angel looked down at his own hands on his thighs, as if for a moment he was tempted to imitate what Crowley was doing, but quickly decided against it. “Complicated? Maintaining that position with… with nothing going inside anything?”

“Dunno,” Crowley replied, shrugging and finally disentangling his hands, “never tried.”

“What I’m saying is,” Aziraphale pressed on, making the questionable decision of downing another shot of whiskey before continuing, “if we wanted to try that, it would be easier to start out… well. With at least one of us having our usual equipment. Maybe both of us, even.”

Crowley’s brain started whirring as it tried to decode what exactly the angel was trying to say.

Point one: Aziraphale wanted to try scissoring. Yes. That seemed clear enough.

Point b: Aziraphale thought one of them, or possibly both of them, should have a dick. Which meant it wasn’t scissoring anymore, was it? But that didn’t matter much at all, because...

Point... something: Crowley was about to get lucky, and he didn’t particularly care which way that happened.

He stood up, waited for the world to stop spinning, and stalked around the bookshop until he found what he was looking for: a piece of paper he could write on and a pen. Possibly, both of them were older than the bookshop itself.

“What you’re saying is—” he hiccupped, then brought a hand to his mouth to muffle the hiccup – about five seconds too late. Brain-to-hand coordination: not great right now. “What you’re saying is… we have dicks.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Aziraphale nodded, straightening the lapels of his jacket with clumsy hands that left his clothes way more crooked than they had been before. “And quims. It’s not scissoring without them, really.”

“Really?” Crowley asked, as if he hadn’t noticed that little detail himself. He did his best not to cringe at Aziraphale’s vocabulary as he put the piece of paper on the coffee table. He frowned in concentration and began drawing. “So something like… if we both have… but they have to able to fit together, eh? So…”

  
He held up the piece of paper.

“Something like this?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, clapping his hands together, “you’re a genius!”

“Oh, stop…” Crowley replied, blushing all the way up to his ears. “Is that even a… a configuration a human could possibly have?”

“Well, I’m no expert on human anatomy, much less human genitalia,” Aziraphale said, somehow managing to give himself an air of eruditeness despite being three sheets to the wind, “but there are so many of them. Surely this is a possibility. Human variety is… wonder _flr_ —spec _tachch_ —great. It’s great.”

“Right, yes.” Crowley nodded along, much more interested in getting on with it than he was in whatever any human had in their pants, “so, uh… did you intend to try this right now?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Aziraphale smiled and, unfortunately, there wasn’t a third person in the room with half a brain to tell them to at least sober up first.

✂️

“I think we’re stuck,” Crowley said, wriggling left and right and feeling really rather silly.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale replied, a foot hooked behind Crowley’s back and his left leg starting to cramp.

Really, it had gone rather well, all things considered – the things to consider being their inexperience and the amount of alcohol they had consumed that night. It had taken them a while to find the right position, and they soon figured out this was not the most comfortable way to have sex, but when they finally got there – well. Aziraphale had said it felt so good it was like having two orgasms at once. Which, technically, he did have. Crowley, less coherently, had asked the angel to check whether his brain was melting out of his ears, because that’s how he felt after coming so hard he saw stars.

And that’s when they realised they were stuck.

“What do we do?” Crowley asked, trying to pull out and realising he couldn’t, since Aziraphale _also_ had to pull out of him at the same time. “On three? One, two—”

“Now wait a moment!” Aziraphale stopped him, a hand on the demon’s bony knee. “Before we cause some serious damage… they should deflate soon, yes? Let’s give them a moment.”

“Oh. Yes. Right,” Crowley replied, vaguely wondering to himself how he had forgotten for a moment that dicks can be hard, but they can be soft too. That must have been some orgasm.

As they waited, Aziraphale reached out to caress his face. “That was great. Thank you, love.”

Crowley grinned. “Your idea, angel. You get the credit for it. Maybe next time we can try the, uh, traditional version. Of scissoring, that is.”

“That would be nice,” Aziraphale replied with a smile.

And then, without thinking, the angel did his usual happy wiggle, and Crowley felt that in places he never had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Just so we’re crystal clear, I meant for the humour to come from the fact that they’re both idiots, not from whatever parts they decide to try on.)
> 
> This chapter has a [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551486) done by the amazing [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)!


	13. Uh-oh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: eggs.

If there is a sound that you don’t want to hear when you and your lover are trying out a new sex toy, that’s _uh-oh_.

Aziraphale was lying on his back, his demon sitting between his open legs, when he heard Crowley _uh-oh_ ing.

“What’s wrong?” He asked feebly, propping himself up on both elbows to be able to look down.

Crowley had his brow furrowed, his yellow eyes ping-ponging anxiously between the angel’s face and his vulva. Slowly, the demon raised his hand to show Aziraphale the controller of the brand new egg vibrator they’d just bought.

Much to the angel’s horror, from the controller hung a limp little cord, frayed at the end.

It took Aziraphale a few moments to realise that what he was seeing meant that the controller wasn’t connected to the egg anymore. The egg that was inside him. The egg that was still very much vibrating inside him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured in shock. Then, as the full extent of his predicament began to dawn on him, “Crowley! What are you doing? Get it out of me!”

“I— _how_? Yes, yes, okay, uh…” the demon stuttered, dropping the controller on the bed so he could get both hands on him.

He pushed a finger inside Aziraphale, trying to hook it behind the egg, but – as they realised exactly at the same time, the pineapple flavoured lube that had seemed like such a good idea one hour ago was now sabotaging their rescue mission. Aziraphale felt Crowley’s finger slip, pushing the toy deeper inside, and rushed to smother a moan against his hand.

“Fuck,” he breathed out against his own skin. He wasn’t usually one to swear – but there are exceptions to every rule, okay? And this was _definitely_ an exception.

It wasn’t even unpleasant, per se – which is exactly what was making this whole situation even weirder.

Crowley repeated the same attempts a few more times, to no avail.

“Try something else?!” Aziraphale barked at him, beginning to panic.

Crowley balked. “Uh. Maybe I could use a magnet, see if it sticks? That could work,” he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, smearing pineapple lube all over himself and wincing as he realised what he’d done. “I must have that fridge magnet I got as a souvenir in Santorini somewhere… maybe in one of my kitchen drawers—”

“ _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale hissed, making the demon stop in his tracks. It must be something, to be a snake demon and have an angel of the Lord _hiss_ at you.

“Right… that was a bad idea. Okay. Uh. What if… uhm,” he lowered himself to be eye-level with the angel’s vulva, trying to peer inside, “well, what if I suck?”

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale stuck out his lower lip, knitting his eyebrows in honest regret, “you don’t _suck_. I’m so sorry I snapped at you, it’s just—”

“No, Aziraphale, I mean literally. What if I suck it out?” He pointed between the angel’s legs, as if he could have been referring to anything else. “But uh, thank you.”

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale considered it for a moment, then slowly lay back down. “Worth a try, I suppose.”

“All right. Yes. This is going to be weird. Hang on.” Crowley lowered himself to lie on his belly and clamped his lips over Aziraphale, clutching at the angel’s thighs as he began to suck.

It was a weird, tingling sensation, and Aziraphale stared at the ceiling and wished he could have, in good conscience, said that it was an unpleasant feeling.

But it wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.

He tried at least not to make any noises, out of respect for Crowley’s efforts.

After a few minutes of this, Crowley pushed his tongue in, and Aziraphale clutched at the sheets as the feeling became both weirder and even _more_ not-unpleasant. _Dangerously_ not-unpleasant.

Crowley tried to wrap his fortunately long snake tongue around the egg to pull it out. Which would have worked in no time at all, if it wasn’t for the angel squirming helplessly underneath him.

Aziraphale did his best to stop. He tried to focus on how bizarre it must feel, for his demon, to have a vibrating egg against his tongue. He remembered the time Crowley’s tongue got stuck on an ice lolly, but that just made him giggle. Which was still wildly inappropriate for the situation.

Crowley’s lips kept rubbing against him as the demon delved deeper and deeper, his hands firmly holding the angel’s legs wide open. His tongue flapped wildly inside Aziraphale as it tried to get a grasp on the egg, and the godforsaken toy kept vibrating merrily all along, stuck on the highest setting.

All in all, Aziraphale thinks he can be forgiven for what happened next.

Finally, Crowley’s tongue managed to get a hold on the egg and pull. A millimetre at a time, he got it closer and closer to the exit. Which, regrettably, also got Aziraphale closer and closer to an orgasm.

Until he couldn’t hold back his sounds anymore, until he was sure that Crowley must have noticed, because the demon stopped for a long moment before making a slight shrugging movement and continuing on.

In the end, it was when Crowley pressed his thumbs on Aziraphale’s outer lips to delicately keep him spread open that the angel finally came with a full body shudder, popping the egg out onto the bed.

He kept his hands over his eyes for a long, long time, not daring to look down.

Crowley ran his hand along his bare thigh in a soothing motion. “Uh, hey. We got it out. It’s all right. Look.”

Aziraphale dared to peek between his fingers and saw Crowley was holding up the toy, still vibrating like the stubborn thing it was, covered in pineapple lube and heaven knows what else.

Actually, no, heaven doesn’t know what else and wants nothing to do with this.

“Wait, let me…” Crowley snapped his fingers and the toy finally stopped moving. He even took care of the mess of fluids coating it. Aziraphale reached out to take it with a trembling hand as Crowley kept stuttering, “look, you—it’s not—you don’t—I mean… I’d rather—if it was nice for you… that’s better, innit? Angel?”

But Aziraphale wasn’t listening, his eyes glued to the egg.

“Crowley?” He called.

“Yeah?” The demon answered, tilting his head to the side.

“Why did neither of us think about miracling it out of me?”

Crowley did not have an answer. And neither did Aziraphale.

Eventually, Crowley tossed the broken toy in the trash and came back to bed without saying a single word.

It was about six months before they could recall the episode to laugh about it together, which really – is not all that bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you weigh my soul I just want you to keep in mind that the prompt was EGGS and I could have done much, much worse.
> 
> Also just for the record: I am aware it is impossible for a love egg to keep vibrating if the cord snaps. But it was funnier this way.
> 
> I'm begging you to read the [Q&A](https://imgur.com/v7QuhM0) under the sex toy I was using as a reference. I'M DEAD.


	14. Interesting Internships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: heaven/hell HQs get some interesting paperwork about the actions of an angel and a demon.

Chazaqiel spun in his swivel chair until the large, white office around him turned into a cold, empty blur. Such a pity he couldn’t get dizzy like a human would, that would at least have been interesting, and a nice change from the constant, deadly boredom that had been keeping him in its grips for thousands of years now.

“Would you stop that, please?” Asked the angel sitting next to him, his long chestnut hair tied neatly in a perfectly round bun at the nape of his neck. “ _Somebody_ here has to get the job done.”

Chazaqiel sighed. “Oh, don’t start that again, Zaq. I already told you, I got this internship just like you did,” he started counting on his fingers as he spoke, “I had to apply, wait half a billion years for my form to be processed, turn in my hoverboard proficiency diploma, take the infinite choice test, get through the interview across all states of matter, then finally—”

His colleague interrupted him by tapping loudly on the screen, on the spot where the notifications had kept rolling in while Chazaqiel was talking, “something is happening, Chaz. Look here.”

Chaz did. The Principality Aziraphale was at it again.

> **_Materialize: Luxurlube, 200ml bottle, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Move: chocolates, from Delicious Sin Bakery (London), to Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Materialize: £200.00, in Delicious Sin Bakery (London)._ **
> 
> **_Change: temperature, from 20°C, to 29.5°C, in Bookshop._ **

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Chaz grunted as he shot himself and his chair backwards into the disquietingly empty space of their office, “so the Principality is jerking off again. Big deal. He’s done that very often in the last six thousand years, you know?”

“I wonder what that feels like,” Zaq seemed to utter to himself, his eyes eagerly glued to the screen.

“Yeah, well, get in line, we all do,” Chaz replied, fidgeting with his mother-of-pearl earring, “but we’ll never find out, because getting a corporation requires—”

“Form 832478237843948384H, form asjdyeyrgefdjsfhd08, and form î̷̘̜͖̇̌̒̓̕͜͜d̵̨̨̛̟̥̙̰̠͔̟̤̩͉̖̙̟͉̠̙̲̄̅̄̓ě̸̬͓̜͙̫͔̯̺͙̝̩̖͖͈̤̉̔̀͗̎̌̓͜͝k̵̨̬͕̓͊,” Zaq cut him off, and Chaz rolled his eyes. “But I think it’s different this time. If you could just—” Zaq reached out to grab Chaz’s chair by the armrest and roll him closer again, ignoring his colleague’s indignant yelp, “look. Why would he raise the temperature in his shop?”

“’Cause he’s cold?” Chaz suggested, shrugging. “Who cares?”

“But he never does this, not even when he’s having some alone-time… right? What if he has company this time?”

Chaz looked from his colleague to the screen and back again, eyes narrowing. “Keep talking.”

“Maybe it’s somebody who suffers the cold much more than he does. Or,” he continued in a much lower voice, “he’d like his guest to take off some layers. Just saying.”

“Oh, that is _wicked_ ,” Chaz commented quietly with a smirk on his face, and then, loudly, as he turned back towards the empty room, “and we strongly condemn this immoral behaviour, if that is indeed the case!”

When the next notification popped in, they both jumped.

> **_Delete: dust, in bedroom, in Bookshop._ **

“He’s bringing someone upstairs!” Chaz shouted, standing up so fast his chair fell backwards.

“I told you!” Zaq shouted back as he began tapping furiously on his keyboard, “let me pull up the list of the humans he’s talked to in the last week…”

Chaz looked at Zaq with a new feeling of admiration. Maybe his companion wasn’t quite as boring and uptight as he’d thought.

It’s always the quiet ones.

> **_Change: bed frame capacity, from 500 pounds, to 50.000 pounds, in Bookshop._ **

“What?!” They exclaimed at the same time, then looked at each other. That could only mean one thing: the Principality’s lover couldn’t be a human. Even two clueless minor angels like them knew that if the Principality’s bed frame was being altered to hold so much force, it couldn’t possibly be for a weak mortal paramour. But then, who—

“No other angel is currently stationed down on Earth,” Zaq commented as he checked the database, filtered for _location: Earth_ , and looked at a desolate list containing one single angel by the name of Aziraphale.

“So who… _no_ ,” Chaz gasped, a hand flying to cover his mouth, his long golden locks framing his face and making him look like the main subject of a neoclassical painting rather than an underpaid intern who’d just found something that’d keep him entertained for ages, “you don’t mean… it _can’t_ be…”

“Oh, but it has to be,” Zaq replied with a sly smile, pulling out of his drawer a blood red folder that had only two words on the cover: _Demon Crowley._ He dropped it on the desk with a dramatic flair that Chaz couldn’t blame him for – they had to milk this for all that it was worth. “It couldn’t be anyone else.”

Chaz scrambled for Zaq’s phone, frantically pushing it in his hands, “call your connection downstairs, we have to know.”

“I can’t call her!” Zaq protested, “I haven’t talked to her since… you know. That whole thing with Lucifer and a bunch of angels losing quite a few benefits.”

“This is an emergency, Zaq,” Chaz said, putting his hands on his colleague’s shoulder, “we absolutely, urgently, undeferrably need to know if the Principality is bonking a demon.”

“Fine,” Zaq replied, tapping on his phone and putting the call on speakerphone, “but only because I’m surprised you’d know what _undeferrably_ even means—oh hey, Sam? Hi, it’s me, Zaqiel.”

“Fuck you want?” Asked the angry voice on the other end of the line. “You don’t call for thousands of years and decide to disturb me the moment I finally have something interesting going on?”

“So glad to hear you too, Sam. Listen… I heard you got an internship filtering notifications from the Demon Crowley, is that true?”

“None of your business, Skittle.”

Zaq groaned at the old nickname but pressed on, “because, if you are, we suspect something is happening between him and—”

“The Principality?” Sam replied, her interest suddenly piqued. She cleared her throat and then very obviously tried to take her enthusiasm down several notches, “well, no shit, Sherlock. What have you got?”

“Lube, chocolates, clean bedroom, unexplained change of temperature in the bookshop, enormous change of how much weight his bedframe can bear.” Zaq listed, and exchanged glances with Chaz when they both heard the demon on the phone making an intrigued noise. “What about you, Sam?”

“Lube, chocolates, perfect coif, unexplained miracle to make his clothes tighter, and he’s altered some anonymous mattress to bear considerably more weight than it did ten minutes ago,” she explained.

There were a few seconds of silence as they all did the math in their heads. Chaz spoke first.

“Let’s forget about the double lube and chocolates for a moment. Correct me if I’m wrong, but if they reinforced the bedframe— ”

“And reinforced the mattress,” added Sam from the phone.

“But did not reinforce—” Zaq couldn’t even finish that sentence before a new bunch of notifications started dropping in.

> **_Protect: corporation, anonymous, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Protect: corporation, own, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Delete: rubble, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Materialize: new floor, in bedroom, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Restore: ground floor, time minus 30 minutes, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Move: bed, from ground floor, to bedroom, in Bookshop._ **

“They… fucked through the floor,” Chaz said, slowly.

Zaq nodded. “So they did. Sam, what do you see?”

“Master Crowley also protected himself and an anonymous corporation. Also, his hair,” the demon replied.

“I can’t believe these two idiots,” Zaq sighed.

Chaz sat back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.

“Two idiots who are getting laid, though,” he said, and neither Zaq nor Sam had anything to add to that.

They all stayed quiet as they watched the rest of the notifications rolling in, little by little.

> **_Materialize: bottle of wine, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Delete: rug burn on knees, anonymous, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Change: fix hair, anonymous, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Delete: fluids on hands, own, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Materialize: tartan blanket, in Bookshop._ **
> 
> **_Gift: the best possible dreams, anonymous, in Bookshop._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is wrong with young angels nowadays??
> 
> Have this chapter [drunk-read back at you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FiTm_pevPw&feature=youtu.be) by the amazing [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quefish). Please.


	15. 666 rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OLHTS prompt: board games

“Can you explain the rules one more time?”

“Satan’s sake…” Crowley huffs out in exasperation, leaning back in his chair and rolling his eyes, “I don’t get why we’re doing this to begin with! The two of us can go outside, it’s not as if we could get sick, and—”

“Solidarity, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, peering curiously at the game piece in his palm – some sort of lovechild of a unicorn and an octopus, “if we want to blend among the humans, it is our moral obligation to follow their rules.”

“Didn’t hear you talking about solidarity when you found out the grocery store was almost out of double cream the other day,” the demon shoots back.

“That’s a different matter,” Aziraphale replies quickly, setting the tentacled unicorn on the board – a mess of squares, triangles, hexagons and circles, “now, where were we? Right. You said the queen of lizards can only move diagonally, and that I can only use her if my ship has reached the dock and unloaded no less than three pink sheep, and also I ought to spin the wheel and get a coin before I—”

“No no no, you’re getting it all wrong again,” Crowley cuts him off, “for your ship to move you have to have found a coin first, and you get that by building a house on this cell right here. But you can’t do that, because you don’t have any tanks left.”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale sighs, “what happened to all my tanks?”

“The Void swallowed them,” Crowley says, pointing at a black hole in the centre of the board, “see?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “My dear, when I asked you to show me a board game you used to play with your former colleagues, I had no idea I was going to get this—this horrible mix of all the most frustrating games known to humankind.” He picks up a die that has one single dot on all its faces and holds it up. “How is this even fun?”

“Fun?” Crowley asks with a smirk. “This is not supposed to be _fun_ , angel. It’s literally a game from Hell, what were you expecting? Besides, aren’t board games just a socially acceptable way to torture someone?”

“I’m sure they aren’t,” Aziraphale says, quietly, looking to the side. Then, he shakes his head and tries to focus on the game again. After a few seconds, he decides to move one of his bronze beetles, for the simple reason that the beetles can only move one square forward, so they’re the easiest choice he could possibly make right now. “There. I’ve done… something. I assume.”

“Oh, you sure have,” Crowley says, getting a thick black rope from the same box the game came in and handing it over to Aziraphale, “there you go.”

The angel looks dumbly at the rope in his hand. Crowley _did_ mention something about it, but there are exactly 666 rules to this game and he’s already forgotten at least 606 of those. Fortunately, the demon notices his discomfort and comes to his rescue.

“To tie my hands,” he explains.

“To tie your—what? What for?” Aziraphale blinks in alarmed confusion.

“My hands. Behind my back,” Crowley enunciates slowly, “to punish me.”

“Whatever should I punish you for?” the angel asks, looking back and forth between the game and his friend, his cheeks colouring.

“You’ve captured the mayor of my citadel, obviously,” Crowley points at a piece shaped like small cloud with a crown on top that’s sitting on the opposite end of the board from Aziraphale’s beetle. “It can’t move now, your beetle has paralyzed him. I explained this, remember?”

Aziraphale decides against arguing and stands up, circling the table to do as he’s told and get it over with.

"So, what do I...?"

Crowley crosses his wrists behind his back and nods towards them with all the grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times before, which makes Aziraphale really wonder about what pastimes demons would get up to in Hell. Small surprise Crowley wanted out of there.

It takes him several minutes to finish tying his lover’s hands, mostly because there’s something very distracting about the way the black rope digs into the demon’s pale skin.

“Having fun with that?” Crowley asks with a grin, staring at him over his own shoulder.

“Not at all!” Aziraphale squeals as he squirms away.

Good Heavens, he’s an angel of the Lord, he shouldn’t be getting _ideas_ from seeing a demon with his hands bound behind his back.

“Either way," he clears his throat, "however will you move your pieces now that you cannot use your hands?” He asks, standing by the table and patting down his jacket.

“Well,” Crowley shrugs. He too stands up, bends over, and delicately picks up a piece with his teeth – a disturbingly fat pawn that Aziraphale refuses to admit really looks like the kind of plug that would be used in a completely different kind of _game_. When Crowley looks up, locking eyes with the angel, Aziraphale knows his demon is seeing right through him.

Without skipping a beat, Crowley moves the pawn three squares to the right.

“Seen something more interesting you’d like to do, angel?” Crowley asks is in a low purr, bending over a little farther for emphasis – and knocking down something in the process, a piece that vaguely resembles an upside down pear with a hundred jiggly eyes glued all around it. It tumbles to the floor with a disproportionately loud thud.

Despite himself, and despite the stupid hundred-eyed pear, Aziraphale has to confess he does find the prospect quite alluring, especially if he looks at the elegant curve of Crowley's back.

“I suppose… there are many ways to pass the time, while we wait,” he concedes, stepping closer to Crowley and hooking a finger under the rope that keeps the demon’s hands tied. He gives it a gentle tug towards the bedroom.

Crowley grins. “Am I going to show you what penalty I deserve for knocking over a piece, angel?”

“Well," Aziraphale takes a step forward, pulling his demon along with him. "If you insist…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have fallen SO BEHIND on posting these here, I'm so sorry. I've been doing a lot of zine work, but the good news (not good news, bad news, very bad) is that I've been writing even more prompt fills than the usual, so what I think I'm going to do is I'm going to pelt you guys with these crack porn drabbles/crimes against morality once a day for a few days until I run out.
> 
> And then write some more.
> 
> You're welcome.


	16. The Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHV prompt: Angel, why is a ___ in your closet?

Demons are naturally curious creatures.

At least, that’s Crowley’s main line of defence if he gets caught in the act.

Is it his fault? It’s not his fault. He’s seen that little box in Aziraphale’s closet not one, not two, but hundreds of times. Thousands, even.

Calling to him. Taunting him.

And, an afternoon when the angel is away and Crowley has the cottage all to himself, he finally cracks.

He takes the Aziraphale’s box from the closet. It’s an unassuming little thing, cherry wood with no inscription, smooth on all sides. He gives it a gentle shake and it makes no sound at all.

When he tries to open it to take a peek inside, he finds out he can’t. Some strong angelic magic guards it against intrusion. Nobody but Aziraphale is going to be able to open the blessed little thing.

Crowley puts it back where he finds it, at the very back the closet, and slinks away to go sink into the couch, defeated.

No, he’s not pouting – demons don’t pout. Ever. Obviously.

A week later, he comes to an interesting conclusion. Now that he and Aziraphale are – well, a couple, even though he still has trouble truly believing it - they share everything about themselves with the other.

Or at least he does. The angel knows everything about him, from how he likes his tea (which he’s learned when tea was first introduced in Europe) to how he likes his wrists firmly pinned to the mattress (a more… recent discovery).

But maybe it’s not the same for Aziraphale. Maybe he still likes to keep some secrets. But what could it be? What could it possibly be, hidden out of view in the back of a closet and never mentioned? What do humans hide in the back of their closets, in boxes that can’t easily be pried open?

Come on. Crowley isn’t an idiot. It’s a sex thing. It has to be. Something Aziraphale is too embarrassed to show him, obviously. Something about the size of a banana, that doesn’t weigh a lot and doesn’t rattle when shaken.

A month later, he’s made every possible attempt to make the angel talk about it. They’ve had long, extremely detailed conversations about what they like in bed and why and how, and Crowley has hinted to being very open to considering _anything at all_ more than once. And, while all this communication greatly improved their sex life, Aziraphale still hasn’t yet mentioned the stupid box, not even once.

Another couple months and Crowley has researched every sex toy in existence. He’s seen things he never wanted to see. He knows things he never wanted to know. Once, Aziraphale appeared behind him while he was scrolling through a truly niche website and Crowley was so startled he dropped his phone in his tea, making the angel look at him as if he’d grown two heads. And while Crowley could grow two of _some_ things—

That’s not important.

What’s important is that it’s almost a full year before he finally admits defeat, leads Aziraphale in front of the closet, points at the box, and asks, “what the Heaven is in there?”

Aziraphale blushes furiously, starting to fidget with his ring, and Crowley starts the long speech he’s carefully prepared.

“Listen, there’s nothing in there that could scare me off, angel. We can talk about it. Whatever fantasy, whatever fetish you think you—”

“Fetish?” Aziraphale interrupts, frowning deeply.

Crowley’s lips open and close with no sound coming out, and the angel stares at him for a few moments before taking the box himself. He opens it with a snap of his fingers and turns it around to show Crowley its contents.

Crowley mentally readies himself for anything. He really meant it: whatever it is, he won’t think less of his angel, he can learn to live with anything, he’ll—

It’s a feather. A long, black, shiny feather. In fact, it's one of Crowley’s feathers, actually.

He tilts his head to the side in confusion and stares at the angel.

“Ah, I… got it on the Wall. In the Garden, that is. After you left,” Aziraphale confesses. “I’m not quite sure why, to be totally honest.”

“And you kept it? All these years?” Crowley asks, blinking once.

“I suppose I did,” the angel replies with a fond smile. Then, he closes the box and raises an eyebrow. “What did _you_ think was in there?”


	17. Write, Read, Set on Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OLHTS prompt: boredom.

He’s not really _bored_.

He’s just… disappointed, really. He was not expecting to be rebuffed like that.

‘Against the rules’. Right. As if human rules applied to them at all. As if they couldn’t very well make it so that no human sees them walking through the city during this bloody lockdown.

Crowley sighs as he sits on his throne, lost in thought. Well, he did the right thing, didn’t he? He told Aziraphale he’ll go to sleep for months if he can’t think of anything to do in the next two days. That’s a clear deadline, innit? And the angel is very free to decide for himself whether he wants to do something about it or not.

No pressure, no going ‘too fast’. No chasing him anymore. Just an open invitation.

Besides, he’ll sleep with his phone under the pillow. Just in case.

When he’s in this kind of mood, there’s only one thing Crowley likes to do, and that’s slithering over to the only corner of his flat that isn’t disturbingly bare: the room where he stores all his memories. It’s a small, windowless room. Just shelves and an old baroque desk in the middle.

For a few hours, he sifts through his souvenirs. Seashells from the time he was on a mission in Lesbos and ran into Aziraphale. An ornate smoking pipe he got in China, around the time he and the angel saw fireworks for the first time. A rainbow thong with cute little tassels, from–

It doesn’t matter.

He’s so desperate to distract himself from the thought that he’s been rejected ( _again_ ) that, when he finds his old box of filthy romance novels, he decides to dig right into it. Alone in the tiny room, he spends hours upon hours immersing himself in stories where the heroine – bland or spirited, gorgeous or plain, hesitant or assertive – in the end always gets the object of her desire. And, along the way, there are always quite a few spicy scenes. Indeed, one can’t help but getting ideas, reading those things alone in the dark.

Crowley isn't sure how much time has passed when he’s done re-reading the last book in the box. Could be hours, could be days. Anyway, the phone in his pocket hasn’t rung, so it doesn’t matter.

He’s sitting on the floor, books with indecent covers scattered all around him, when he gets an idea. Up high on a shelf to his right, there should still be – ah, there it is. The beautiful typewriter he got in the 80s. The perfect tool when you don’t want to leave a trace: write, read, set on fire. Easy. No pesky clouds snatching your private pictures and then getting hacked and releasing them all over the internet.

Although he was mildly offended to find out that, in this century, milky ankles and close-ups of perfectly manicured fingers do not qualify as porn.

He cracks his knuckles and begins to write.

> _“We can’t, angel,” the redhead said, the back of his head hitting the wall as his friend and partner lodged his thigh firmly between his legs. “You’ll be punished. Exiled. Excommunicated. I can’t ask you—”_
> 
> _“You’re not asking, my darling. You do not even have to speak at all.” Suddenly, he had his breath taken away by a deep, passionate kiss. He moaned into it as surprisingly strong hands pinned him to the wall, and there was no hiding the pulsing arousal hardening in his perfectly fitting jeans._
> 
> _“Angel!” He gasped into the kiss, his hands reaching out to grasp tentatively at his best friend’s tan coat._
> 
> _But there was no reply, just more kissing. And then more kissing. And then, the redhead realised, his clothes started coming off, layer after layer, and warm hands toujasgjdhsdkjasdsaldjsjkdhejh_

“W-wh-what the Heaven are _you_ doing here?!” Crowley sputters, frozen in place, the dirty books still on the floor and his thinly veiled self-insert porn stuck in the typewriter.

“Oh, I…” Aziraphale hesitates. He stands in the doorway, his gaze taking in the books and the typewriter before landing squarely on Crowley’s very evident erection. He blushes immediately and takes two steps back. He thrusts an arm forward, showing him a cake carrier. “Y-you said—you wanted to watch me… well it doesn’t matter, I-I couldn’t reach you, and I was worried, so I… I rather think I should leave.”

Maybe it’s the fear that if he doesn’t act now he might lose his angel forever that propels him, but Crowley is on his feet and through the door in the blink of an eye, surprising even himself. He grabs Aziraphale by a wrist to stop him.

“Or, we… you—” well, shit, he doesn’t even know what to say. He releases the angel, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, his mouth suddenly very dry. What is there to say? Even his boner has been scared off by the prospect of having fucked up so badly.

He sighs, giving up. There’s just no way to fix this.

“Look, I didn’t mean—you just startled me, is all. You’re free to go,” he gestures in the vague direction of his front door, “obviously.”

Aziraphale considers him for a long moment.

“Oh, but I suppose I could stay a little. I brought lemon drizzle cake. We could have a cup of tea,” he begins to walk towards the kitchen, leaving a surprised but relieved demon behind him, “and maybe you could tell me all about your… _creative pursuits_ as we eat.”

“As _you_ eat,” Crowley corrects him, turning around to close the door to the small room and _lock_ it, “and believe me, angel, you don’t want to hear anything about those.”

Aziraphale has disappeared behind a corner, but his voice can be heard loud and clear.

“Perhaps I do!”

Crowley blinks twice before scrambling towards the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find podfic of this chapter done by the wonderful [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion) right [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061975)!


	18. Hit the Ceiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHV prompt: sex fails or accidents.

Fine, yes, he will admit it: Crowley had a good idea.

At first, Aziraphale had been quite sceptical about this whole ‘disregarding gravity’ and ‘making use of the walls and ceiling’ ordeal, but he’s changed his mind now.

The heavy petting against a wall, their feet not touching the floor, had been quite fascinating. Not very different from doing the very same thing on a bed, admittedly – but he didn’t get Crowley’s hair in his face every other minute, and that’s quite the perk.

Being sandwiched between the ceiling and his lover, however – that’s a whole other deal.

The cool surface feels pleasant against his back, and Crowley’s body burns hot against his skin. The demon’s angular shoulder blades press into his chest in a way that should feel uncomfortable but isn’t, not at all.

Aziraphale grips Crowley at the hips, where his sharp bones jut out to make the perfect handle – maybe he’s handling him in a way that’s quite impolite, and more than a little proprietary even, but that’s what Crowley does to him, making him forget all propriety.

Crowley, on his part, does not seem to mind at all, quite happy to be manhandled. He crosses his ankles and, with the quiet tingle of a miracle, makes his inner thighs slicker, silkier, so that Aziraphale’s cock slips right between them.

For all that Crowley loves to praise the angel’s thighs, his own are quite a wonder to Aziraphale.

Indeed, they’ve only been at it for a few minutes when an orgasm takes the angel by surprise, and he smothers a loud moan into Crowley’s shoulder as the white hot pleasure radiates from his core up his spine, all the way out to his fingers and toes, as it reaches his brain and shuts off all his higher functions for a few, long moments.

He’s not aware of anything at all but Crowley’s warmth, the smell of his skin, the way he hisses in pleasure – until the demon himself gently tugs at his hand.

“Uh, angel?” Crowley calls, and there’s something in his tone that tells Aziraphale something’s off.

“Yes, my darling?” He asks as he finds a lovely spot between the demon’s shoulders to press a kiss to.

“There’s been a little accident. We forgot something. Sort of. Thing is,” Crowley turns back a little to be able to look at him, “did we consider what we left underneath us?”

Aziraphale gasps – if he could, he’d bring a hand to his mouth for emphasis. “My clothes. Oh dear. I rather made a mess on them, didn’t I?”

“Yep,” Crowley confirms, popping the ‘p’. He pats his arm reassuringly. “Let me clean it up for you? If you’d like?”

“Please,” Aziraphale replies, and he can’t help smiling as he closes his eyes and rests his cheek against the demon’s back, “and thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish) has [drunk-read these last two chapters](https://youtu.be/aXtaqfI-u_g) and it's _amazing_. You can't watch these without smiling, I promise.


	19. Booty Dial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Misadventures with Technology

_Watch you eat cake_? Seriously? What the hell has come over him?

The fact that they are _friendlier_ now doesn’t mean he can just say things like _that_.

Crowley spends three days kicking himself for it. Sure, in the last year or so Aziraphale has held his hand several times during their walks through the park or their dinners at the Ritz. And there have been a few surreptitious kisses too, here and there. And, on one notable occasion, just a week ago, the angel has got a bit carried away, licking into Crowley’s mouth and then even straddling him, the heavy pressure of his weight hot and pleasant in Crowley’s lap, and the demon has very nearly come inside his pants.

He’s been thinking about it every single day since then.

He sits up in bed and opens his laptop, taken by the sudden urge to video call his angel. To see his face light up when he says his name – as he always does. _Crowley_ , he’d sigh, and every time it’s like watching storm clouds part over the sea, painting the quiet waves gold and silver.

Or some romantic shit like that. Don’t ask Crowley, he’s just a foul fiend and he doesn’t do romance. Nope.

He hesitates for a long time with his finger over the call button. He just got Aziraphale a brand new tablet. The angel could answer from his desk. Or from his kitchen. Or—maybe even from his own bed.

The thought makes Crowley slightly dizzy, and he pulls away at the last possible second, grumbling as he turns the other way. He can’t call from his bed and risk the angel also being in bed. That’s basically shagging, come on.

Thing is, he forgets he’s left his computer on mute when, last night, he decided to fall asleep with the second season of Fleabag keeping him silent company.

📞

Aziraphale drops his whisk, cream splattering all over the floor, his shoes, and his favourite pair of trousers.

Where’s his recipe? This isn’t a recipe. This is… Crowley’s pale back, curled up in bed, peeking out of raven black sheets. Did Aziraphale do something wrong? Crowley’s name appeared all of a sudden, and the angel tapped somewhere on the screen, and now…

Well. He’d be lying if he said he minds whatever is happening right now. He forgets all about the whisk on the floor as his gaze glides over sharp bones and smooth skin, over a smattering of lovely freckles along the gentle curve of a shoulder. He swallows.

“Crowley?” He asks, his voice trembling. He clears his throat and tries again. “Crowley, what is—”

The moan that travels through the speaker of his tablet sends an electric shock down his spine and melts away whatever else Aziraphale was planning on saying. Crowley’s bony elbow trembles with movement, and suddenly the angel is extremely aware of what he’s watching.

Good Lord, should he even be seeing this? It feels like intruding, but… well, it was Crowley who called him, wasn’t it? So the demon must _want_ him to watch.

But why wouldn’t he just say so?

A pang of guilt burns in the angel’s stomach as he realises how many times he’s carefully kept his best friend at a safe distance. At arm’s length, even when he wanted him so much.

And Crowley must know he wants him. Some days, Aziraphale feels like it’s written on his forehead in all caps. _I LOVE THIS DEMON AND I WOULD DO RATHER UNHOLY THINGS TO HIM._

Small wonder that Crowley wouldn’t ask.

And yet, he’s still brave enough to offer himself like so, knowing full well Aziraphale might hang up on him and never call him again.

Well. Maybe it’s about time he does something brave too.

📞

Crowley knows, conceptually, that angels can do anything demons can do. He’s had plenty of proof of that.

But this does in no way mean he’s prepared to have a half-naked Aziraphale pass through the internet network and materialise in his room, in his bed, over him, while he’s quite busy jerking himself off.

He makes a completely undignified yelp as Aziraphale lands on top of him, knees on either side of his body, pinning him down. He screeches as he takes in the angel’s open shirt, the dusting of golden hair on his chest, the complete absence of trousers, the rolled back sleeves and the sock garters over his knees.

It’s too much, too fast, and he’s never felt more like a pathetic little lizard with its tail trapped under a rock.

“My darling,” Aziraphale says, _impossibly_ , cupping his cheeks as Crowley keeps thrashing uselessly under him. “It’s all right. No need to worry anymore. I’m here now.”

“I can see that!” He shrieks, his fingers encircling Aziraphale’s wrists. “Why?! Why are you here?”

“What do you mean…” Aziraphale frowns, turning to the laptop. “You called me. You wanted me to see…”

“I very much did not!” Crowley says, watching surprise, realisation and finally disappointment flicker and settle on the angel’s face.

There is a long moment where neither of them says anything.

Then, just as Aziraphale begins to shift to get off of him, Crowley says quickly, “b-but since you here, you, uh, you might consider staying? Perhaps?”

Aziraphale’s face lights up like a shooting star. “I would love that,” he replies.

Crowley tries to move to make space for him under the covers, but Aziraphale stays right where he is. And, blushing crimson but stubbornly keeping eye contact the whole time, slowly begins unbuttoning his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the last one in the pipeline folks! Back to your regularly scheduled once-a-week horrors now 🥳


	20. A Great Boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the Dowlings.

Crowley and Aziraphale had not expected Harriet Dowling to be, all things considered, quite a good employer to work for.

Also, they had not expected that this job would be quite so boring. Having literal supernatural powers at their disposal, the work that would have been hard and demanding for a mere mortal is incredibly easy for the two of them. Which means that, when they aren’t trying to influence the Antichrist (the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness) towards the light or the darkness, they have a lot of free time to spend being bored out of their minds.

Which explains at least half of what happens three years after being hired by the Dowlings, on a drunken Friday night.

It starts with an argument.

“My dear, I only meant…” Aziraphale hiccups, making the wise decision of leaving his half-full glass of single malt whiskey on the table, “it hardly seems appropriate to gift an 8-year-old boy a live tant—tart—tarat— _big black spider_. What’s wrong with a stuffed animal? Something inoffensive. Like a… a teddy bear. Or a bunny.”

“A bunny?” Crowley repeats, eyebrows scrunched together for a long moment as if he had all but forgotten what a bunny even is. “You’re—that’s ridiculous. And I’m not taking any advice from you, angel. Not after watching the way you _butchered_ those roses in the garden.”

“Oh, they’ll grow back,” Aziraphale says, waving a dismissive hand in the air, “that’s the entire point of pruning them.”

“You’re a terrible gardener,” Crowley says to his glass, and Aziraphale shoots to his feet.

And then immediately wobbles, regretting standing up so fast the room spun around him for a long, terrifying moment. “I-I am doing perfectly well, thank you,” he smooths down his jacket, holding his chin up in the air, a determined look on his face. “Although, if I’m being honest, I don’t think the same could be said about you.”

Crowley grins. “You don’t know the first thing about being a nanny.”

“I would do much better than you,” Aziraphale replies, illustrating his point by downing the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp, “M’n angel. Angels are beings of love. Perfectly suited for the job.”

“Oh, yeah? S’that what you think?” It’s Crowley’s turn to stand up, staring Aziraphale down, only an inch left between the tips of their noses. “Let’s see it. Half an hour. Show me what Nanny Aziraphale would look like. If you think you can.”

“Of course I can,” the angel replies, pursing his lips. “It remains to be seen whether you—” Aziraphale loses his point for a second as he scans Crowley’s body head to toe. “Whether you could make a convincing gardener, that is.”

“Let’s find out,” Crowley says.

They shake on it and storm off in different directions.

🌂

“What is _that_?” Crowley spits out, his gaze taking in Aziraphale’s new look – the vintage heels, the lace garter peeking out from his too-tight too-short skirt, the baby blue shirt straining to hold in the angel’s brand new breasts. “You look like Mrs Doubtfire wasn’t making enough money during the day and had to take a second job as a—”

“Don’t be crass now,” Aziraphale warns him, sticking up a perfectly manicured finger in all its bubble-gum pink nail polish glory. “I don’t know who this Mrs Doubtfire is, but no doubt a respectable woman. Rather,” he looks Crowley up and down, “what do _you_ think you’re doing?”

“M’dressed as a gardener,” Crowley replies, standing up straight, perfectly aware that his shirt is open halfway down his chest and that the bib of his denim dungarees is folded down over his front, with its braces around his thighs. He sneers. “What makes you think a nanny would dress like that?”

“If you have to know,” Aziraphale explains, his tone piqued as he steps forward, “I looked it up on the family computer. On the interweb.”

“Oh, you looked up _nanny outfit_ on Google?” Crowley tilts his head back and lets out a short bark of laughter. “Well, that explains it.”

When he looks back down, Aziraphale is much closer, his hands on the demon’s chest as he struggles with his shirt – apparently trying to button him up. “Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Yeah. Indeed,” Crowley replies, mirroring Aziraphale as he reaches out to unbutton the angel’s shirt. It needs very little encouragement to pop open, revealing a lacy bra that, Crowley is sure, wouldn’t be out of place in a museum – and has no business looking this hot.

“Don’t distract me,” Aziraphale swats his hands away, his cheeks blushing with more than just make-up, and Crowley refrains from pointing out that the angel hasn’t done up a single button. His soft, warm hands have been fluttering frantically – and uselessly – on the skin of his chest for a while now. His thoughts are soon occupied, anyway, by the way the angel grasps at his hips. “And did you make these tighter on purpose, you foul fiend?”

 _Obviously_ , Crowley thinks – just because he has to wear a costume doesn’t mean he has to look bad.

“Not as tight as this skirt,” Crowley fires back, sneaking his hands behinds Aziraphale’s back to find the skirt’s zipper and pull it down in one smooth motion – one he’s practiced on his own skirts a thousand times.

It falls to the floor, and Crowley’s mouth goes dry at the sight of the angel’s hard cock straining against lacy panties. He has to give it to Aziraphale, when he goes out, he goes _all_ out _._

“Fuck,” he groans.

🌂

If Harriet Dowling were to walk into the garden shed to find out where the hell his nanny and gardener have disappeared to, she’d find only a tangle of limbs on the floor – an ethereal being on his back, breasts spilling out of his carefully selected bra, his panties around his ankles as the demon he’s quite energetically clinging to moves over him, long fingers wrapped around both their cocks as their moans fill the small space around them.

Fortunately, if there’s something Harriet has learned in her first month with her new employees, it’s to never, ever invade the Nanny or the Gardener’s privacy on their day off. It’s not worth the trouble – or the trauma.

And, in short, that’s what makes her a great boss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I am aware this is 99% smut and 1% crack, idk what to tell you. Sometimes it just happens that way.
> 
> Also fun little poll: how do you pronounce frottage (as in, the act of rubbing two penises together)? Does it rhyme with cottage or fromage? Inquiring minds need to know.
> 
> ETA!! [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish) made a [drunk reading of these last two chapters](https://youtu.be/VyUcvyYyMw0), I can't even type I'm laughing so hard 😂


	21. Alternative Uses for a Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Travel
> 
> Fair warning that Crowley is a snake here and they still have sex. So. You know.

To explain how Crowley ended up in his snake form, wrapped around Aziraphale’s torso, his tail between the angel’s butt cheeks and his forked tongue flickering on the head of his lover’s cock, in the big shower of a luxury hotel on the southern coast of France, we need to take it back a little.

To about ten minutes ago, in fact, when Aziraphale called from the bathroom, shouting above the noise of the shower running.

“Crowley?” He’d said. “Crowley, I-I’m quite afraid I forgot to pack my sponge…”

Crowley, who could easily detect the little mischievous note in the angel’s voice, had hurried to the bathroom, unzipping his dress along the way and letting it fall to the floor with a dramatic flair he quite liked.

He’d been more than a little excited to get some fancy hotel sex, but Aziraphale had looked at him through the transparent shower wall, elegantly speckled with drops, and frowned.

“Oh, I…” the angel had begun, while Crowley stepped out of his underwear, his eyes glued to Aziraphale’s renaissance painting-like curves. “I rather thought it would have been nice for you to be a—well, a literal serpent, this time.”

Crowley had carefully considered this for all of three seconds.

_Here’s the thing_ , the demon would explain to you if asked, _if you’re ever put in the position of having to wait 6000 years to get laid, you’ll discover yourself willing to try most things._

_And here is another aspect to consider_ , Aziraphale would politely add, _6000 years is a very long time for one’s imagination to flourish._

All very good points.

Which partly explains why Crowley, with barely a sigh, had turned into a big black snake and slithered into the shower.

_I can do a little roleplay_ , he’d thought, wrapping himself around Aziraphale’s ankle and beginning to climb his leg like an apple tree.

“You are not actually cleaning anything, Crowley,” Aziraphale had soon protested.

“Rather thought that was the point,” Crowley had hissed back, bumping his snout into the back of Aziraphale’s knee.

“That wasn’t the point at all!” Aziraphale had replied, sounding much more indignant than Crowley thought he had any right to sound. “Do it properly, please.”

Now, it goes without saying that Crowley had never, in his long existence, quite been told how to turn himself into a human—sorry, into a _snake_ sponge. So he’d done what seemed more logical to do, wrapping his coils tightly around Aziraphale’s entire leg and moving up and down, like a disproportionately big spring being compressed and released again and again in rapid succession.

“All right, this takes the cake for dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” Crowley had said, mostly to himself.

“You’re free to go if this is not to your liking,” Aziraphale had replied.

But Crowley had taken a look at the angel’s rapidly swelling cock, nipped his buttock (making him gasp), and shrugged – in whichever way a snake coiled around an angel’s leg could shrug, “No no, I didn’t say that. I’ve done much weirder things for much less reward.”

And so he’d kept going. No matter how strange it was, he’d ‘cleaned’ Aziraphale’s four limbs, and then his torso, and he was up around his neck when Aziraphale had gasped, “Oh love, please, _now_ ,” and Crowley had known exactly what to do.

Which brings us here, to a situation that would have any normal person call the police because _it looks like a snake is being abused, or—sorry, actually, could you hold on a moment, please? It sort of looks like the snake is very much into it, now that I look closely._

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, holding himself up with one hand against the wet wall, “would you mind if I washed my hair, while you…”

“By all mean _sss_ ,” Crowley replies, having evidently decided they might as well go down this rabbit hole as deep as they can possibly go.

A few things happen in rapid succession.

Aziraphale, with shaky hands, gets a bottle of shampoo and applies some to his curls.

The shampoo drips down his body and right into Crowley’s eyes, making him hiss and involuntarily jerk around (and inside) his lover’s body.

Aziraphale yelps and hits the shower mixer with his elbow, turning the water scorching hot in a matter of seconds (it is, after all, a luxury hotel).

They both scream.

🚿

Much later, once they’ve miracled away a few first-degree burns and a sore ass, but get to keep their wounded prides forever, Crowley passes Aziraphale a glass of wine, and declares, “Next time, tear-free shampoo.”

“Next… next time?” The angel raises both eyebrows in surprise, then smiles. “Tear-free shampoo—yes. Yes. Brilliant. Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to tag this 'human furniture', but then I realised a sponge isn't really furniture, more like an accessory.
> 
> Also, a snake demon isn't human, neither in essence or in shape.
> 
> By this logic, I should have tagged this 'snake accessory'.
> 
> You see my problem.


	22. First Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: pride.

Crowley sauntered into the bookshop feeling pretty damn proud of himself.

It’s hard to find an outfit for an event that calls for head-to-toe rainbows when your demonic wardrobe ranges from ‘black as a dark and stormy night’ to ‘slightly less charcoal than concrete on an atrociously hot summer day’, but Crowley thought he had done a good job.

He admired his reflection in the big bookshop windows for a moment.

He was wearing the most aggressive pair of combat boots he’d been able to find (black), a scandalously short pair of denim shorts (also black), and a complicated top, ripped in strategic spots and held together by a multitude of safety pins (still black, both the top and the pins). His aviator sunglasses had mirror lenses, therefore they’d reflect all the colours around him, and he decided that’d be his generous contribution to the event’s theme.

Even his usual half-up half-down hairdo looked nicer on that sunny morning.

It was 1995, and Crowley was ready to party.

Aziraphale looked at him as if he’d gone insane.

“The _Pride_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley said, circling the angel, who had on the same clothes he’d been wearing for the past few decades, “Have you missed it? It’s been all over the news. Thought you’d be dying to go.”

In truth, Crowley had briefly debated whether he belonged at all in such a parade, what with being a genderless infernal being – or, more accurately, an infernal being who thought of all genders as his own. Then he’d decided that being desperately in love with an angel was as close to queer as a demon could ever hope to get.

“I-I just don’t think…” Aziraphale hesitated, swallowed, glanced up, “I don’t think my side would – quite approve of that, that is.”

“What?” Crowley looked at him over the rim of his sunglasses. “Don’t tell me Heaven looks down on love. Isn’t that their entire deal?”

 _Between humans, at least_ , Crowley added bitterly in his own head.

“But civil disobedience, Crowley,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Protesting. In the streets!”

“Oh, it’s more like a party than a—” Crowley spotted Aziraphale’s raised eyebrows and realised Heaven would dislike the idea of one of their angels going to a party even more than an angel joining a protest. “Why don’t you wear a disguise, then?”

“A disguise?” Aziraphale said, and there it was – the sparkle, that little light that signalled to Crowley that if he played his cards right, if he just gave the angel enough excuses to justify his actions to headquarter, he’d eventually say yes. “Oh, but they would still sense my presence, wouldn’t they?”

“Not necessarily,” Crowley said quickly, desperately fanning the fire before it could die. “We stand close enough, we’ll cancel each other out. They won’t sense me, and they won’t sense you either.”

“Oh, oh that—that could actually _work_ ,” Aziraphale smiled as he took a step away towards the bookshop’s back room. “Be back in a jiffy.”

🌈

_The first time I manage to bring him to one of these things and we look like a straight couple_ , Crowley thought to himself as they made their way to Trafalgar Square.

Aziraphale hadn’t just worn a disguise, as Crowley thought he would, and he hadn’t limited himself to wearing something a tad flashy, as the demon had. Oh no, he’d gone the whole way and came out of the back room with a brand new pair of delightful, voluminous breasts, fuller hips, and a cascade of lovely white-gold curls that went all the way down to his shoulders.

And, tragically, the same love for tartan.

The demon hoped to himself they’d be welcome anyway, and kept walking.

The parade itself was glorious. Full of colours, music, costumes, flags, balloons, witty signs. Crowley loved every second of it, and he loved even more how much Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying himself, giggling behind a delicate hand or outright laughing with joy as they danced through the street.

And dance they did. Terribly, clumsily, completely disregarding rhythm and shame, but they danced all the same, and they’d never felt so free in their entire existence.

And then, just as Crowley reached up to adjust his hair, Aziraphale stopped and looked at him - really _looked_ at him.

He shifted closer, stood up on the tips of his toes, and kissed him.

Crowley stood frozen for a long time, his hands stuck in his hair before his brain managed to tell his body to move them. His fingers came to rest on the angel’s shoulders, and when Aziraphale pulled away he was beaming – not to mention literally glowing.

For a moment, that is. Until he took a step back and they both realised that the angel’s luscious curls had got caught in Crowley’s shirt – or, more precisely, in the multitude of tiny safety pins he was wearing all over.

“Wait, don’t—” Crowley tried to say, but Aziraphale was panicking.

“Ow! Oh! That hurts, Crowley—ow!”

“If you could stop squirming for a second—”

“No! Don’t raise your arm, you’ll just—”

Their frantic bickering was interrupted when a big black shadow loomed over them, and they realised that, while the rest of the parade had moved forward, they’d remained in the same spot for several minutes. Now, a huge pink tank manned by several protesters in camo pants was about to run them over.

They both screamed.

🌈

A snap of fingers later, they were both safe and sound inside the bookshop.

They looked at each other for a long moment before starting to laugh.

Aziraphale wiped a tear from his eyes, and Crowley thought he’d never loved him more.

“Not bad for a first timer,” he said, in place of what he actually wanted to say but couldn’t. Aziraphale gave him one of those meaningful, bashful looks that he’d come to know so well. “Not bad at all,” Crowley repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my friend [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion) for turning this chapter [into podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526816)!
> 
> Also watch [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish) trying very hard to read [this chapter and the snake sponge chapter](https://youtu.be/HRdqr73DS1Q) with a straight face.


	23. Croquembouche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: accidental discorporation.

In Crowley’s defence, when Aziraphale gets lost in a book, he might not move at all for hours on end.

Which is to say, he doesn’t think it’s his fault if he didn’t notice right away that the angel had got himself discorporated.

He hadn’t thought anything of Aziraphale not returning his greeting when he’d strolled into the bookshop that night. He’d seen the back of the angel’s head peeking from the back of the couch and had assumed he was focused on one of his books. He’d found himself a comfortable seat, put his boots on the coffee table, and popped open a bottle of wine as he waited for Aziraphale to finish his reading.

When he hears the angel’s voice, from somewhere to his left, he’s halfway through his third glass of wine.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sounds like he’s speaking to him through yards of water. “Can you hear me?”

Crowley looks at the back of the angel’s head and quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Oh, good. Where are we?” Aziraphale asks.

“In your bookshop?” Crowley replies, frowning. “What are you reading that has you so engrossed?”

“Ah, well, that’s quite the problem here, actually, you see…” Aziraphale’s voice moves to the demon’s right, and Crowley gives the bottle of wine an accusatory look. “I was going through this tome I’ve had for a few centuries, and, well - didn’t quite remember it came from a time when arsenic was still used as dye. And you know perfectly well I have a terrible habit of wetting my fingers before turning a page…”

Crowley, who remembers every single time in the last six thousand years Aziraphale got his tongue out for anything, grunts in agreement.

“I’m afraid I got myself quite efficiently discorporated,” the angel finishes.

“Uh,” Crowley stares at Aziraphale’s head – at _Aziraphale’s corporation_ _’s_ head against the couch. Suddenly, this night got a lot spookier than he was prepared for. “Anything I should do?”

“Oh no, no it’s quite alright,” Aziraphale reassures him, “I spoke to Michael, and they granted me a new corporation within the next twenty-four hours. They were quite rude, really, told me I can have anything I want as long as I don’t show my face up there ever again.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” Crowley groans, taking another long sip of wine, “I did a very good job last time I was there. Almost singed Gabriel’s eyebrows right off his stupid face.”

“Right, so, I’m afraid I won’t be much company tonight,” Aziraphale’s voice floats somewhere in the proximity of Crowley’s nape, and the demon shivers as he runs a hand on the back of his neck. “Which is a terrible, terrible shame. I just had a croquembouche delivered from an excellent new bakery down the street, and by tomorrow it won’t be as good at all.”

Somehow, Crowley gets the impression that, wherever he is, Aziraphale is giving him his trademark pout. That pout that means _wouldn’t you be a dear and fix this for me, Crowley? I would be so very thankful and shamelessly bat my eyelashes at you like you’re my very own knight in shining armour._

You know, _that_ pout. The one that works on Crowley every single time.

“What?” He asks.

“I… well. Since we have switched corporations once before, I was just thinking you could… well, you could let me inhabit yours for a little while. Share, that is. Just until tomorrow.”

“No,” Crowley replies immediately. “We’re not doing that. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale’s voice whines, and Crowley could swear the angel’s spirit is sitting on his lap right now. “It would be for a very brief time. And we could both enjoy the croquembouche.”

“Not interested, thank you.”

“But Crowley, I…” the angel’s voice is now pleading right against the shell of his ear. “I need your help.”

Crowley sets his jaw, groans, and puts down his wine. “Fine, okay, fine. Just until your new corporation arrives.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale replies, as if the demon’s agreement came as a surprise at all, but Crowley only has a split second to roll his eyes before the angel flings himself down his throat.

It’s an altogether unpleasant feeling, like swallowing a piece of bread that is, at once, too hot and too big, settling heavy inside him and making him vaguely nauseous.

Although that’s nothing compared to what happens right after.

Crowley hadn’t really thought about it - but it’s obvious, in hindsight. Welcoming Aziraphale into his body is a meshing of their souls, and the angel has just gained free access to all of Crowley’s most intimate thoughts and feelings. When the demon inwardly curses himself for forgetting the details of how demonic possession works, Aziraphale can hear it.

From that moment, it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Aziraphale sink into his soul like a spoon in a bowl of molasses. Gradually, smoothly, ineluctably.

Until he reaches the soft core of him, and sees _all of it_. All the hope, the longing, the love.

It’s fucking embarrassing is what it is.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Crowley croaks out.

“Oh, my dear—my dearest,” Aziraphale sounds choked up, and also _feels_ choked up, considering he’s using Crowley’s throat to speak. “It’s… it’s quite alright. Let me show you—”

Aziraphale opens his own soul to him, and Crowley finds the very same things he’s been hiding from the angel all along. Most of all, an incredible amount of fondness for him, which leaves him astounded and a little breathless.

And maybe it’s because he’s distracted and not careful enough that he peeks a little farther, a little _too_ far,the metaphysical equivalent of opening someone’s bedroom closet, and is immediately overrun by a startling amount of lewd fantasies and memories. In a single second, he’s brought up to speed with six thousand years of Aziraphale’s most secret wishes.

And it’s a long, filthy list.

He feels, all at once, how strongly Aziraphale wants him, how he has always wanted him, and all the many, many ways he would like to take him and be taken by him.

When his head stops spinning, Crowley notices a strange wetness in his jeans.

“Ah, fuck,” he says. There we go, they basically just confessed to each other after all those years of waiting and he spoiled it immediately. “Did I just come in my pants?”

“No, love,” Aziraphale replies, with Crowley’s own mouth, and thankfully he doesn’t sound disgusted at all, “Technically speaking, I think _we_ just came in your pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to worry, they do also eat the croquembouche later on.
> 
> [Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24648898) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion) right here!!


	24. A Kind of Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Aziraphale's Magic Act

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

“Do you remember our last anniversary?”

“Course,” Crowley tried to hide his smile behind his phone as he kept scrolling through his Pinterest feed. “We went to Paris. It was a good weekend.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale concurred, coming to sit next to him. “And do you remember what you got me for the occasion?”

Crowley knitted his eyebrows together. “Flowers? Chocolate? Brought you out to dinner someplace nice?”

“Yes, all of those,” Aziraphale smiled, and the demon could clearly spot that trademark up-to-no-good glint in his eyes. “But you also got me those adorable homemade coupons. I think you got the idea on Tweeting.”

“ _Twitter_ ,” Crowley corrected him automatically, just as he realised what Aziraphale was talking about. Oh. Right. He’d thought it was a charming idea, about a year ago. A bunch of pieces of paper that promised cute little things like ‘dust all your books (no miracles)’ and ‘get through all of Hamlet without sighing once’.

Aziraphale gave him a coupon and asked, “Do you have plans for the evening?”

Crowley looked down at the piece of paper that said ‘a very weird thing in bed, no questions asked’, shook his head, and grinned.

🎩

  
He grinned much less when he found himself in a magician’s assistant costume. Which really just meant being dressed like a playboy bunny in a tailcoat.

It was not so much the costume that was the problem - Crowley could _really_ get behind wearing high heels, fishnet stockings and a ridiculous tiny top hat pinned to his long, red curls. It was, as always, Aziraphale’s unbearable passion for silly magic tricks that he just couldn’t stand. They could do proper magic, for somebody’s sake!

Although, most of all, Crowley was annoyed that when a very enthusiastic angel pressed him into the bed, kissing the living daylights out of him, he didn’t even care anymore about how ridiculous the whole thing was. Aziraphale was warm and heavy above him and very much hard against him, and Crowley forgot all about drawn on moustaches and tartan cravats.

Until Aziraphale pulled a magic wand out of his coat.

“Ready for my first trick?”

Crowley’s only answer was his deadpan expression.

Not at all discouraged, Aziraphale hiked one of the demon’s knees over his shoulder and tugged the stretchy fabric of his costume aside. Crowley’s entirely too enthusiastic erection sprung out of it - getting the same deadpan expression from his owner.

Aziraphale’s magic wand went poking around Crowley’s arsehole, and really the demon would have stopped it if it didn’t actually feel quite interesting. It was much softer than a regular wand had any right to be, much bendier, and, as he soon at the chance to notice, much slicker.

It slipped in easily, finding its way to his prostate with one smooth, wet push.

A real shame Aziraphale had to ruin it all by declaring, “And that’s my disappearing act!”

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley gritted out, even as he rolled his hips to get more friction, “Before I lose my patience and regret this—”

“Yes yes, of course dear,” Aziraphale pulled out the wand (bit of a shame that, but don’t tell anyone) and showed Crowley a remote-controlled vibrator. It looked normal enough, and the demon breathed a sigh of relief as Aziraphale pushed it inside him. When he was done, the angel dangled the remote in front of him for a moment - Crowley could see it had a variety of intensity levels and patterns. But, just as he was reaching out to get it, Aziraphale fanned out a bunch of playing cards in front of his face instead.

“Pick one, please,” he asked, as if that was a totally normal thing to say.

Crowley had a brief flashback of himself writing ‘a very weird thing in bed, no questions asked’ on the coupon, convinced for all the world he was a seductive, brilliant demon.

He picked a card.

“Oh, the Eight of Spades! Let’s see—” Aziraphale pressed the big button on the remote exactly eight times and the vibrator came to life, passing through an array of options before settling on a pulsing rhythm that slowly got stronger and stronger.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Crowley clung to the pillow under his head for dear life, eyes rolling back as Aziraphale kept the massager firmly lodged inside him. He realised with startling clarity that he was going to come from this. He was going to come from Aziraphale sticking a fucking magic wand inside him and then making him pick a card, and he was going to enjoy this.

Ah well. Much worse fates than this.

Aziraphale wrapped a firm hand around his cock and began to move. But, just as Crowley breathed out a sigh of relief and prepared to let go, the angel slowly pulled the vibrator out.

And then kept pulling. And then pulled some more. Crowley frowned as he saw the massager on the bed, and yet very clearly felt as Aziraphale kept pulling something out of him. Something long, round, and bumpy. Slowly, a long string of rainbow coloured anal beads slid out of him, one by one. A trick Aziraphale and never really managed with a scarf - it always got tangled somewhere - but, apparently, could execute perfectly in the bedroom. 

“What the—” Crowley had no way to finish that thought. Aziraphale pumped his hand faster and pressed a big bead back inside him with his thumb, gifting him with one of the best orgasms he’d ever had.

As he tried to catch his breath, the angel came to lie next to him. 

“Not too bad, I hope?”

Crowley could hear every bit of badly disguised smugness in Aziraphale’s voice, but at that point didn’t even care anymore. 

“Better than expected.” He adjusted his costume unelegantly as he kissed the angel on the corner of his lips, right below his badly drawn moustache. “At least no live rabbits were involved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [Gothikmaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothikmaus/pseuds/gothikmaus) for [drawing Crowley in his magician's assistant costume](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826555) :D I wanted to see this so badly, what a gift!!
> 
> And thank you to [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish) for hilarious drunk-reading of [this chapter and the Croquembouche one](https://youtu.be/eRpjWmgunLM) 😂


	25. Master Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: housework.

“So it’s a thing humans do?”

“Apparently,” Crowley shrugs. “For example… I could pretend to be a delivery man, come here with a package for you, and you could answer the door in your bathrobe, pretending you just got out of the shower.” He seems lost in thought for a long moment before continuing. “Obviously, we’d have to act like total strangers.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale twists the ring around his pinky. “And whatever would we do with the package?”

“You—that’s—I have no idea.” Crowley jumps to his feet, circling the room. “Doesn’t have to be that. Could be… uh, say, I could be a plumber coming over to _fix your sink_.”

Despite the suggestive way Crowley says the last three words and the pointed arch of his right eyebrow, Aziraphale winces. “Oh, just the thought of all the horrible goo plumbers deal with makes my stomach turn. Really, Crowley, not enticing at all.”

The demon groans, rolling his eyes.

“What if,” Aziraphale begins to say, his uncertain tone immediately gaining Crowley’s undivided attention. Not for the first time, the angel wonders whether his lover knows how similar to a snake eyeing his prey he can look sometimes, when he forgets himself.

Not that he minds.

“What if I… what if we pretended this was your home, instead of my bookshop, and I came over to clean for you?” He clears his throat and adds, tentatively, “Master Crowley?”

Crowley looks at him like he’s just been slapped across the face and found out he liked it.

“ _Oh_. Fuck.”

🧹

They start in the kitchen. Crowley walks in while Aziraphale is washing dishes.

He leans seductively against the counter. Then he looks down into the sink. “Are you washing clean dishes?”

“What—no, of course not, Master Crowley.” Aziraphale hears a faint _ngk_ sound coming straight from Crowley’s throat. The dishes _are_ actually clean, but that’s not the point here, is it? “Oh, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at this,” Aziraphale purrs as he splashes water across his (not coincidentally) white shirt. “Look at that, I’ve made quite a mess of myself.”

“Hnn—let me help you out of that, angel, before you get cold." Crowley takes a step forward and fiddles with the first button of Aziraphale’s shirt, then seems to change his mind and applies his tongue to a nipple through the sheer, damp fabric.

“Oh, yes, yes, my darling…” Aziraphale sinks a hand into Crowley’s hair, arching his back ever so slightly and moaning softly, enjoying the feeling of the demon's tongue lapping at him through the shirt, but just as he’s getting into it he hears a horrible sputtering, choking noise, and looks down horrified.

“Soap.” Crowley explains, unrolling his impressively long tongue out of his mouth as if to show him. “Tastes disgusting.”

“Maybe we should try something else.”

🧹

Aziraphale climbs on top of the ladder and begins to dust the highest shelves, making sure the angle is perfect for Crowley to have a full view of his arse from where he’s lounging on the sofa.

“Oh my, I'm afraid this will take a while,” he whines, looking back at Crowley over his shoulder and batting his eyelashes. “Is that alright, Master Crowley?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. “No problem at all. Take _all_ the time you need, angel.”

Aziraphale turns back and resumes dusting. He soon realises that, now that he’s paying attention to it, there is quite a lot of actual cleaning he should be doing around this place.

He gets down from the ladder, feather duster in hand, and goes to stand between Crowley’s open knees.

“Anything else you’d like me to _clean_ , Master?” He presses the feather duster against Crowley’s crotch. The demon grins, and Aziraphale continues ‘dusting’ up along his stomach, across his chest, up to his chin—

“ _ACHOO!_ ” Crowley’s sneeze is so loud it reverberates through the bookshop, leaving splatters of spit all over Aziraphale’s trousers. “Uh, sorry.”

Aziraphale drops the feather duster and sighs. “Oh, my dear, this doesn’t seem to be working out at all.” He looks down at the sorry state of his clothes. “I think I’m going to change and get some real cleaning done, if you don’t mind. The shop might need it.”

Crowley grimaces. “Yeah, yeah okay. And yes, it really does.”

As Aziraphale leaves, he chooses to ignore Crowley muttering to himself _'been saying that for about two hundred years now'._

🧹

It’s always been very easy for Aziraphale to immerse himself completely in whatever he’s doing and forget the world - whether he’s reading a book, baking a cake, or filing his taxes.

Therefore, he’s not surprised to find out he actually quite enjoys using the vacuum cleaner. He doesn’t even mind the noise it makes. He takes great pride in how clean his carpets and floor look once he’s done with them - and he makes sure to do this properly, paying attention to the corners, cleaning all along the walls, pushing his stuff out of the way so he can get around and under the furniture. He even lifts an armchair off the floor one-handed so he can vacuum underneath it - realises Crowley was sitting on it only when he hears a remarkably embarrassing sound from somewhere over his head.

He peers up, and sure enough Crowley is clinging to the armchair, blushing up to his ears.

“What—oh. _Oh_. Is this… is this working for you?”

“Yu _p_.” Crowley nods, quickly glancing back down at him and then looking away, as if the sight alone of an angel lifting him from the ground like he weighs nothing at all is too much for him to handle.

“Why,” Aziraphale says, smiling as he abandons the vacuum on the floor, “I was just thinking of relocating this armchair to the bedroom. What do you say, Master Crowley? Shall I bring it over there, perhaps?”

“ _Guh_ —I think that’d be an excellent idea, angel.”


	26. The Naked Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: drugs. 
> 
> If this is a triggering subject for you, please know that I went a completely different direction. While it's mentioned that Aziraphale took something, the effects on him are very different than they would be on a human, and in fact this got very fluffy on me very soon. If you would like to read this but you're still concerned and have a specific question, feel free to either drop me a comment or an ask, anonymous or not, on my tumblr @ chamyl!

“What did you take?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale whines, adjusting his cravat. It’s 1969 and, as Crowley very well knows, there’s a vast array of drugs the angel could have ingested.

“Well, _think_ ,” he barks, leading him out the sketchy establishment he found him in and unceremoniously stuffing him into the Bentley. He sits in the driver’s seat and hits the gas pedal with the wrath of an angry God - and Crowley would know a thing or two about that. “Human drugs don’t have the same effect on us, you should know that at this point. You might… I don’t know. You might grow a tail, for all I know.”

“A tail?” Aziraphale looks seriously offended at the prospect, but Crowley sees him, out of the corner of his eye, discreetly sliding a hand between his back and the seat to check. “And anyway, this isn’t my fault.”

“How is it not your fault? Were you _peer-pressured_ by some human born twenty years ago?”

“Whenever I get into trouble, you always come to rescue me, so excuse me for not worrying too much.” Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he slaps both hands over his mouth. Crowley hears a panicked _oh dear_ muffled by the angel’s fingers, but he’s too busy almost driving the car off a bridge to take notice. He stops as soon as he’s able too, in a dark, tiny alley where they won’t be disturbed.

“Excuse me, what was that?” He asks, a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s seat.

“I didn’t mean to say that!” Aziraphale has the face of a man-shaped-being who, as many before him, has just realised drugs might not be as fun as he first thought. “It just slipped out!”

Crowley takes off his glasses to be able to look at him more closely. Could whatever drugs Aziraphale has taken have a truth-serum effect on him?

Before he can take a good look at the angel, Aziraphale cups his face in his hand. “Oh, such beautiful, beautiful eyes. I don’t tell you enough.” The angel’s thumb traces his bottom lip and Crowley forgets how to breathe altogether. “I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to kiss you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes look dazed for a few more seconds before he pulls away horrified. “I-I didn’t mean—I mean, I meant, I-I didn’t mean to say it right now, but I did mean what I said—oh bugger.”

“Right,” Crowley says, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth as he puts his glasses back on. “Hallucinations it is, then. Or delirium. I’m taking you home and cracking open a bottle until you sort yourself out.”

“Hallucinations? Delirium?” Aziraphale asks over the loud roar of the Bentley. “No, Crowley, you got it all wrong, I just can’t stop myself from saying the truth.”

Crowley rolls down the window, the wind whooshing in the car, and turns the radio all the way up. “Can’t hear you!” He shouts over _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy_ (speaking of which, he shoots his own car a death stare in the vague direction of the dashboard).

Aziraphale keeps yapping away all the way to the bookshop. The wind and the music can’t stop Crowley from overhearing an array of embarrassing confessions.

They pass by the river and Aziraphale tells him about that time he got so drunk he stumbled right in the Thames and sneezed so hard he scared all the birds in a mile wide radius. Crowley tries hard not to laugh.

They turn by a fancy tailor shop and Aziraphale remembers the time Gabriel dragged him in there for advice, and he had to quickly explain to his boss that he had to manifest a dick and a pair of balls immediately if he wanted to pass off as human. Crowley coughs loudly, trying not to give away how fucking hilarious that sounds.

They drive by a bookshop that is well known to host a licensed sex shop downstairs, and Aziraphale confesses candidly that one time he walked in to browse books and walked out with as many sex toys as he could carry. Crowley’s ears burn and he stubbornly pretends not to have heard.

The angel goes on to tell him he gave himself rug burns by pleasuring himself too hard on the carpet of the back room, and Crowley realises he’ll never be able to look at that ugly carpet the same way again.

“I seem to always end up thinking about you when it happens, did you know?” Aziraphale says with the air of someone who’s talking about the weather. “No matter how hard I try not to… when I forget myself, I always picture it’s you touching me.”

Crowley parks in the front of the bookshop and stumbles out like a castaway touching land.

“Sleep. Now!” He orders, leading Aziraphale by an elbow while the angel mutters apologies and exclamations of surprise at the things he’s just said.

While Aziraphale passes out on the couch, mumbling sleepy protests under the blanket Crowley threw on him, the demon sits on the farthest possible armchair and tries to stare down his raging erection.

So far, the erection is winning.

  
💊  
  


The next morning Aziraphale wakes up to a pounding headache. He’ll stick to alcohol from now on, thank you very much. He finds Crowley asleep on one of his armchairs, his head titled back, his mouth open, snoring softly. He feels a wave of affection so strong for the demon that he has trouble smothering it down, but no further embarrassing confessions spill out of his mouth, so he figures he’s finally in the clear. Well, except for all the things he’s already said.

Crowley blinks himself awake, stares at him in confusion. “Everything all right?”

“About what I said yesterday—”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” Crowley lies, and Aziraphale knows perfectly well he’s lying. “The music was too loud. You were speaking nonsense. The wind was very strong. And you know how I drive.”

He gives Aziraphale an half-crooked smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Thank you, Crowley, you really are a gentleman—well, gentledemon sometimes.” Before his courage leaves him, he leans down and kisses Crowley smack on the lips.

“Oh, sorry,” Aziraphale says, fluttering away from the demon and towards his desk. “Must still have some drugs in my system.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	27. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE Y'ALL HAVE READ THE TAGS ON THIS SERIES. I don't want to spoiler what happens but yes. Please read the tags.

Aziraphale makes an indignant noise even as he keeps trailing kisses along the graceful line of Crowley’s throat, all the way down until his lips brush the delicate notch between the demon’s sharp clavicles.

He grumbles irritably as he opens the buttons of Crowley’s black silk pyjamas one by one. With the shirt out of the way, the palms of his hands caress slowly the coarse hair on the demon’s chest and the warm, smooth skin down his sides.

“Honestly,” he sighs, flicking his tongue over a pert nipple as he presses a thigh between Crowley’s legs. The demon’s cock is already rock-hard against him. “I can’t believe you sometimes.”

He stops to take off his old-fashioned nightgown - the object of Crowley’s gentle mockery for a few years now. Aziraphale has never heard him complain about what’s underneath, though, not even once.

He strips to his underpants, then hooks his fingers in the waistbands of Crowley’s bottoms and boxers, tugging both away in one smooth, practiced motion. Crowley’s cock springs out, standing proud and glistening at the tip, and the sight of it makes Aziraphale’s mouth water. He struggles to keep his gaze on the demon’s face as he drags the fabric down his endless, lovely legs.

“Gorgeous,” Aziraphale huffs out, frowning. “But still. Appalling behaviour on your part.”

He takes the demon’s cock in his mouth and hears himself making an obscene moan around it. For all his protests, he’s missed Crowley very much, and the smell of him goes straight to his head like fine liquor. He groans again as he chokes himself on it, his own cock straining inside his underwear, aching for relief.

He massages Crowley’s balls as he sucks him off, then takes him firmly in hand to keep him still as he eagerly licks away at the head. He keeps making disapproving, annoyed noises, even as he enthusiastically relaxes his throat to take him all the way inside his mouth, swallowing the salty, musky taste of him. Crowley’s breathing is fast and shallow, some languid moans escaping his lips as the angel works him exactly as he knows he likes.

“Oh, I can’t take this anymore.” Aziraphale pushes his own underpants away, focuses on a quick miracle and pushes a finger inside himself, finding his entrance slick and open and empty. “Look what you’ve done.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply as he turns around and raises himself on his knees, his back to Crowley, and slowly begins the delicious work of sinking onto the demon’s cock.

“Oh, ah—oh, Crowley, uhnnn…” He balances with his hands on Crowley’s knees as he rolls his hips, quickly finding his angle and going at it with all the desperate frustration of the past few months, words falling off his lips at every thrust. “Oh, yes, my darling, my dearest, you’re perfect— _fuck_ , I’m not going to last, Crowley, I—”

He takes himself in hand just as he begins to come, long, white spurts all over the demon’s legs and the black bedsheets underneath.

“Come on now,” he pants, breathless, still moving despite the threat of over-sensitivity stinging with every movement. “I want—I need to feel you finish inside me. Please, Crowley, please, don’t make me wait any more, please—”

Crowley’s knees jerk underneath him and Aziraphale hears him grunting just as he feels the warm wetness of the demon’s come inside him.

He closes his eyes to enjoy the feeling for a long moment, stays there until Crowley’s cock begins to soften inside him.

Then, he pulls himself up, cleans them with a snap of his fingers, and comes to lie down next to Crowley. Who’s smiling in his sleep, having barely moved an inch since it all started.

“You’re lucky I love you so much,” Aziraphale grumbles, pulling the covers over them both and nestling his head on the demon’s shoulder. “Really, who says ‘ _you won’t bother me, angel, just go right head, it will give me very nice dreams’_? You’re impossible. I am outraged.” Aziraphale yawns loudly, eyes fluttering close even has he tries to keep fighting.

He continues mumbling as he falls asleep. “Unbearable. You are… shameless. Wily tempter… demon. Terrible…”

But Crowley just smiles, no doubt lost in some very nice dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody gave me a prompt, I just saw [this post](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/622924309480046592/whats-crowley-up-to-now-that-its-july-and) and went ballistic like the little trash beast I am.
> 
> [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish) drunk-read [the last three chapters](https://youtu.be/GGDCQs81pcg) and I almost died pissing myself laughing in this heat but it was worth it.


	28. Caterpillar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: behind the couch.

Things between him and Crowley had become rather more adventurous as of late, and Aziraphale couldn’t be happier about it. After all, what’s the use in defeating Heaven and Hell if you don’t take advantage of your newfound freedom to get a little kinky with your partner of choice?

He was kneeling on the carpet of his bookshop, anticipating the moment his lover would come back and see to him. His hands were tied behind his back, a solid steel spreader bar was keeping his ankles apart, and a bite gag pressed heavy on his tongue, preventing him from talking.

It was splendid.

For an extra thrill, Crowley had also put a curse on a black velvet collar that stripped Aziraphale of all his powers as long as he was wearing it. It had all been very thoroughly planned - the angel had got a few relevant books on the subject and he and Crowley had done some research together.

Now, collar aside, he was completely naked, and helpless, and perfectly content about it. He wished Crowley would come back to give him some relief but, at the same time - oh, the wait was so sweet.

His cock gave an excited twitch when he heard the bell over the front door ring. Crowley had used a little miracle to make sure no human would get through, so Aziraphale felt perfectly safe, for all that he was so terribly exposed.

Then he heard Gabriel’s voice booming in the bookshop.

“Anyone home?”

There are things we don’t know we know how to do until the moment comes when we have to do them.

Aziraphale, for example, had no idea he could tip forward, cheek, shoulders, knees and toes against the floor, and crawl like a caterpillar. But he did, and he found refuge behind the nearest couch just before Gabriel turned the last corner.

“I just want to talk, Aziraphale. Please come out now,” Gabriel ordered, and Aziraphale could perfectly picture the eye roll he couldn’t see from his hiding spot. Leave it to Gabriel to sound as if Aziraphale was being unreasonable, not showing up for him - as if the last time they’d seen each other the archangel hadn’t tried to murder him.

And sure, that had been Crowley inside Aziraphale’s body, but Gabriel hadn’t known that, had he?

The angel heard the sofa creaking under Gabriel’s weight and realised with mounting horror his unexpected guest had sat down.

“I will wait here!” Gabriel shouted, as if he thought Aziraphale was hiding behind some corner awaiting his departure, avoiding him on purpose.

Which he was. But that’s not the point.

Ten minutes went by very, very slowly. Aziraphale didn’t dare breathe, excessively conscious about the nakedness of his arse sticking up in the air only a couple feet behind Gabriel’s wide shoulders.

Then, the archangel groaned. “I can’t believe there’s no television here,” he muttered to himself. Aziraphale heard shuffling, then the faint sound of something being put down, and realised Gabriel was going through the books he’d left on the coffee table, probably picking out something to kill time.

Oh no. Not the books he’d left on the coffee table!

“Pornography?” Gabriel asked to no one in particular. Aziraphale’s face, against the floor, burned hot. “Is it supposed to be _this_ sticky?”

The angel stared hard at a dust bunny under a bookcase, wishing to be anywhere else in the world but where he currently was.

“Ah!” Gabriel exclaimed. “It must be why humans lick their fingers when they read.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and refused, _refused_ to picture his former boss licking his fingers clean from… well, his or Crowley’s spunk. He couldn’t quite remember, to be perfectly honest.

After a few minutes of blessed silence, he heard a loud thump and guessed Gabriel, uncivilised brute that he was, had ungracefully dumped whatever book he’d been reading.

“Don’t see the appeal.” More shuffling. A book fell to the floor. Aziraphale flushed with rage and said nothing. “This one though…”

More silence. More waiting. Aziraphale’s back was starting to protest his unconventional yoga pose.

“Uh,” Gabriel said, and the angel heard something unusual in his voice. Uncertainty? “What are you up for, buddy?”

For a terrifying moment, Aziraphale thought Gabriel had spotted him and was talking to him. Then he heard the sound of a zipper being opened, did the math in his head, and realised with consternation that the archangel had been talking to his own penis.

“Is this how—oh, hey, that’s _nice_ …” Aziraphale wished the floor would open under his knees and swallow him, but instead he was stuck there, listening to the rhythmic slap of Gabriel’s hand against his groin.

Good Lord.

It went on for several minutes, until the angel heard a rustling of feet and looked to the left, realising Crowley had just come back and was staring, open-mouthed, at the archangel jerking off on the sofa - who, thankfully, hadn’t spotted him yet.

Crowley and Aziraphale locked gazes.

_What the fuck?_ Crowley mouthed silently.

Aziraphale only opened his eyes wider, urging his lover to intervene. Crowley snapped his fingers and, a moment later, Aziraphale found himself safe, sound and unrestrained in Crowley’s bedroom.

“Thank— _somebody_ ,” he said, massaging his wrists. “I need an exceptionally long bath after this.”

“I’m _somebody!_ ” Crowley shouted after him as he followed him into the bathroom.

  
🐛  
  


In the bookshop, Gabriel finished himself off with a loud groan. As he had never done this before, he didn’t know he was going to make a mess all over his own hand, his trousers, and the hardcore BDSM book he had kept open on his knees, so he was quite surprised at all the white stuff spurting out of him.

He shrugged, closed the dirty book with a squelch, and put it back on the table before leaving.


	29. The Hand of the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: prophecies.

Okay, fine - maybe Aziraphale is a bit more agitated than he normally would be. It’s just… it’s a very stressful time in his existence. A lovely time, mind you, but stressful all the same, because, well... the world didn’t end, and things slowly started to change between him and Crowley. A simple smile turned into a long, meaningful moment when their eyes locked and then they were both leaning towards the other. Their usual meeting spots turned into places to walk by hand in hand. And their nights of drinking together turned into steamy make out sessions.

That’s the thing. They’ve been taking it slow, keeping all their clothes on all the time. It didn’t make sense to rush into this, they reasoned, now that they have all the time in the world. And sure, Aziraphale almost came in his underpants just yesterday because of some very vigorous, fully clothed dry-humping, but…

He’s stressed, is the point. He’s tense and his head is up in the clouds all the time and he was really not expecting Anathema to send him a picture on the brand new smartphone Crowley just got him. Aziraphale immediately recognised it as something penned by Agnes Nutter. Something about how the Hand of the Devil would crumble and the Fall would be great - he didn’t really pay much attention, because immediately after the picture he got another message from Anathema urging him to go check on Crowley, technically the hand of the Devil on Earth, and make sure he was all right.

So he ran.

(He ran while vaguely wondering where Anathema had just got _more_ Agnes Nutter prophecies. Is there another book? And can he get his hands on it?)

Crowley has given him a key to his flat and an open invitation to come by whenever, so he lets himself in as quickly as possible - just to freeze in the hallway when he hears a very familiar moan coming from the bedroom. Then another. Then another.

Oh dear. Seems like Crowley is alive and… well. He sounds well. He sounds _great_ , to be honest, and oh - maybe he shouldn’t disturb him? Surely, as long as Aziraphale stays close enough to make sure the demon is fine, he’ll be safe and sound. Yes, yes he can do that. Just… hang in the hallway and keep guard. He was the first guardian of history, wasn’t he?

And sure, he can hear pretty much everything that’s going on in the bedroom from his guarding spot, but that’s just a coincidence.

What _is_ going on in the bedroom, anyway? It sounds like Crowley is going at it quite intensely. His voice clambers and cracks and Aziraphale holds his breath - and then it subdues, Crowley mutters something, and starts all over again, even louder than before. Is he… is he bringing himself just at the very edge, and then letting go before he can finish?

Aziraphale swallows, palming down the erection demanding to burst free of his dear old trousers.

He’s not sure how much time he spends there. It’s sweet, sweet torture to listen to Crowley’s ragged breathing, his sighs, his _whimpers_ \- to imagine him on his knees or on his back, naked or half-clothed still, his face pressed into a pillow or his head thrown back in pleasure, gripping his hard cock in those strong fingers of his or fingering himself until he’s sore and satisfied.

Aziraphale wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. (He doesn’t technically need it, he just likes doing it.)

And then, a loud bang - and he doesn’t even think before rushing into the room.

He finds Crowley on his ass, on the floor, his stomach and thighs covered in come, one foot stuck in the sheets and one leg still hanging over the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but his socks, black lipstick, and a tie.

He’s also clutching his right hand as he looks up at Aziraphale.

“Cramp,” he offers by way of explanation, and then it seems like all words desert him as he slowly realises what is happening.

“What… what were you doing?” Aziraphale hears himself asking, although he very well knows. Really, it should be Crowley asking _him_ what he’s doing here, not the other way around.

Crowley makes a complicated series of jumbled sounds. He looks at his cramping hand as if for help, at his foot stuck over the bed, at the hot pink vibrator buzzing quietly on the sheets, at his stomach covered in jizz, and finally back at Aziraphale.

“Yoga.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes I watched Staged.


	30. Speed Dial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: you shall have no other gods before me.

It was one of those things that had started up slowly and then completely snowballed out of control.

It had started with Crowley worshipping Aziraphale’s hand, sucking languidly every finger and then licking in between, brittlebush eyes fixed on the squirming angel above him. Aziraphale had sat in his armchair and chastised him between a choked moan and a little push of his fingers farther deep into Crowley’s mouth and the demon had, of course, kept going.

It’d continued with Crowley getting two handfuls of angel thighs and squeezing them hard as he called them a paragon of perfection. The best thing on this goddamned planet.

“Crowley, that’s blasphemy!” Aziraphale had protested, but Crowley had just pointed at himself.

“Demon,” he’d said, “Blasphemy is my breakfast.”

And so on. Until the day they truly crossed the line.

Aziraphale was tied to the headboard of their bed and Crowley was straddling his knees, laser-focused on him, one hand around the angel’s cock, stroking him slowly.

“Look at it,” the demon purred, giving it an indulgent squeeze, “Religious ecstasy has got nothing on this.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale gasped, in that offended tone of his that suggested he wanted to get much more offended than that, and to please continue.

“I’m serious.” Crowley gave his cock a sloppy lick, starting from his balls all the way up to the dribbling tip. “God wishes She had something like this to play with.”

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale strained against the thick black rope restraining his wrists, cock twitching and leaking some more. “You can’t—you can’t say things like that. She’ll hear you.”

“Oh, I hope she does,” Crowley smirked as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and opened his lips to taste him.

In that moment, a bright beam of light pierced through the ceiling of their bedroom, falling squarely on Aziraphale’s chest and burning off the very tips of Crowley’s hair - would have cut off all his split ends, had he had any.

Crowley threw himself off the bed so fast he almost took the angel’s cock with him, remembering at the very last second to let go of it.

**_THIS ENDS NOW._ **

God’s voice made all the hairs on Crowley’s legs and arms stand up like static electricity.

Aziraphale vanished his restraints and covered his groin with both hands.

“O-of course, I’m-I’m-I’m so sorry, Almighty, forgive us, for he… he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Hey, I know very well what I’m doing!” Crowley argued, getting a pillow thrown at his dick in reply. He caught it with both hands and held it there.

“Crowley, you can’t just stand naked in front of God!” Aziraphale whisper-shouted at him, which Crowley thought was very silly, considering the Almighty could hear everything.

“What? Why not?” He dropped the pillow, exposing his entire body again. He gestured vaguely towards his half-mast dick - it had been somewhat discouraged by being almost burned off the face of the Earth. “She made _this_! She knows what it’s like.”

“Still—!”

“Actually, now that I think about it.” Crowley stepped closer to the spotlight, taking care to keep safely out of its circumference. He looked up towards the heavens. “Hey! You don’t talk to me during the Flood, you don’t answer during the Black Plague, you don’t show your face during the Napoleonic wars, but this is the thing that summons you? Seriously?!”

**_MY DECISIONS ARE NOT FOR YOU TO COMPREHEND. I AM NOT TO BE QUESTIONED._ **

With that, the light turned off, leaving a red-faced angel with his hands over his dick and a demon in his birthday suit whose hair smelled vaguely like roast chicken.

Crowley quickly climbed back on the bed. “Angel, get those hands out of the way.”

“What?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, squirming back. “Why?”

“I need to talk to God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish)'s [drunk reading of the last three chapters](https://youtu.be/-713GtD7w6Y) if you want to laugh hard enough your face will hurt.


	31. #introductions

crowley🐍

angel? you there?

crowley🐍

aziraphale?

crowley🐍

hello???

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


Good evening, Crowley. How are you today?

crowley🐍

what the heaven is that?  
next to your name  
on the left

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


Why, that is called a kaomoji. Very popular in Japan. I’m surprised you don’t know that. This is, after all, your playing field rather than mine.

crowley🐍

you think what I’m doing on the internet is learning about emoticons?  
don’t answer that  
listen  
I’m going to stream my screen to you so we can play pictionary. think you can handle that?

crowley🐍

aziraphale?

crowley🐍

angel??

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


Yes, Crowley, I am here, I was just looking at a picture of a snake with giraffe ears on. Very endearing.

crowley🐍

…

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


Also, I wanted to mention that I am very proud of you for respecting social distancing rules in these trying times, even though we can’t get sick. It’s very honourable of you.

crowley🐍

🙄  
you say that because you don’t know the mischief I can cause home alone with an internet connection  
anyway  
I’m going to start the stream, just dick the join button  
_click_  
_click_ the join button  
have you clicked?

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


Oh, those squares are cute. Thank you, my dear.

crowley🐍

squares??? you’re not supposed to see squares  
hold on  
how about now?

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


I see a drawing of an owl. It seems to be wearing a bra.

crowley🐍

perfect!

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


You wanted to show me a drawing of an owl wearing a bra?

crowley🐍

of course not!! it’s a game, remember? I explained it to you

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


Can you explain it again?

_Some time later._

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


I don’t understand this other game.

crowley🐍

what don’t you understand?  
you and everyone else gets a prompt and you all write about it.

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝒜𝓏𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑒 ♥  


Wouldn’t everyone end up writing the same thing?

crowley🐍

you’d be surprised.

_Even more time later._

Crowley was definitely drunk at that point of the evening, but Aziraphale was drunker. He kept his face so close to the camera Crowley could only see a single green eye.

(It was green, right? The angel's eyes seemed to change colour all the time…)

“Guh—angel, I think I’m falling asleep.” He ran a hand over his face, then blinked a few times to keep himself awake for a couple more minutes.

“That’s fine,” Aziraphale’s voice said through the speakers of his computer. He batted his eyelashes, and Crowley got the impression he was smiling. “I can stay here.”

“Until I’m fast asleep?”

“Until you’re fast asleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got a little meta in this one, didn't we?  
> For those who don't know, the owl wearing a bra is the mascot of Drawful 2, which is basically pictionary on steroids. A++ would recommend.
> 
> Many thanks to [attheborder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder) for giving me the Discord html & css!! 💘


	32. Like Father, Like Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the Antichrist.

Crowley knocks on Aziraphale’s door in the middle of the night. Aziraphale is already awake and very surprised to see him.

“I’m in need of assistance,” Crowley hisses, leaning heavily against the door frame.

Aziraphale gives him a long, inquisitive look.

“Is it related to the fact that you seem to be exceedingly pregnant?”

“Bingo.”  
  


🍼

  
“Explain again why you did this to yourself, please.” Aziraphale lets himself fall backward into the couch, vaguely hoping it’ll swallow him, as Crowley staggers towards a chair.

“I might have been a little drunk—” “ _Very_ drunk.” “ _A little_ drunk, as I was saying, and wondering how to convince the ambassador’s wife I’ll be a good nanny for the Antichrist, when the time comes.”

“So?”

“So I thought, maybe if I know exactly what she’s gone through, the whole growing a baby inside her and pushing it out, we can bond over it, and—yeah, I might have been more drunk than I remember.”

Aziraphale sighs, sinking into the couch, lips scrunching into a pout. “At least that explains why I haven’t seen you in months.”

“Right.” Crowley smooths down the tight black leather skirt that’s struggling to hold itself together around his bigger shape. “Sorry about that. Anyway, contractions have started.”

“Oh dear. And you came here?” Aziraphale is on his feet immediately. “Crowley, we need a doctor!”

“Of course, why not, let’s call a human doctor, then if I turn into a giant black snake in the middle of giving birth—”

“Giving birth to _what_ exactly, by the way? Crowley, you’re not about to become a parent, are you?”

“Oh, no no. It’s, well—ah, how do I explain this to an angel?”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, thinking it surely can’t be harder than explaining how he got himself pregnant, which Crowley has just done quite easily.

“Have you ever seen a parent in a public place being absolutely desperate because their child, who’s normally reasonable and quiet, is suddenly having the loudest meltdown?”

The corner of Aziraphale’s lips twitches in irritation. Yes, he’s seen and _heard_ it very many times. Sometimes, much to his horror, inside his own bookshop.

“Right, that’s because an agent of Hell has momentarily swapped the child with—uh, we have some extremely realistic dolls that have been programmed to scream their little hearts out. Well, figure of speech, they don’t _actually_ have hearts—”

Aziraphale cuts him off before he rambles any further, which the demon has a tendency to do when he’s nervous. “You’re telling me you’re giving birth to an infernal doll?”

Crowley blinks once, very slowly. “Will you help?”

  
🍼

  
In the end, it goes more smoothly than expected. Which isn’t saying much, considering Aziraphale was expecting a small Apocalypse to happen.

But all Crowley asks him to do is to fill the tub, then he miracles the water to be dark and opaque so the angel won’t see a thing. He undresses and Aziraphale, torn between leaving and staying, settles on staying, looking pointedly at the floor between his feet to protect Crowley’s modesty - even when the demon needs a hand to lower himself inside the bathtub.

“Did you use a miracle to give yourself an epidural?” Aziraphale asks when Crowley’s grunting seems a little too subdued for a person giving birth.

“‘Bout ten of them.”

Aziraphale thinks that’s fair.

It’s a couple of hours before Crowley gives one last, long huff of breath and asks him to reach inside the tub to get the doll.

Aziraphale dips his trembling hands in the water. With the last of his powers he has left, Crowley snaps his fingers, cleaning up himself, the doll, and turning the dark water into a bubble bath.

“Careful, it will start screaming soon, it’s what they’re built for—”

But Aziraphale has the doll in his arms and it’s looking up curiously at him, perfectly content and silent.

“Crowley? Crowley!” The angel has to raise his voice to snap Crowley out of whatever trance he seems to be in. “I have a question.”

Crowley blinks twice in rapid succession, pulls himself up a little into a more dignified sitting position. “Yes?”

“Is there any particular reason this doll has blonde curls and blue eyes exactly like mine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oopsie?


	33. Natural predator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: clothes and clothing mishaps.

Crowley’s long black nail tapped against the table. “Explain again why we shouldn’t use miracles for this.”

Aziraphale crouched on the floor and picked up his creation, some shapeless dark blob too big for his arms. “We don’t know if they’re affecting his growth, Crowley. There are no studies on the subject.”

“Studied on the—” Crowley would have run an exasperated hand down his face, but he didn’t want to risk smearing his perfect make-up. That shade of purple lipstick was hell to remove from skin. “It makes no sense. You make no sense. This is ridiculous.”

He was about to turn around and walk away when Aziraphale glanced at him with his trademark pleading stare, looking pitiful and helpless, all alone surrounded by scissors and threads and glue gun sticks (but no glue gun, for some reason). Unfortunately for Crowley, it was a Saturday, and Saturdays were Brother Francis’ days off, so Aziraphale had got rid of his ugly disguise, and the demon was particularly vulnerable to Aziraphale’s good looks.

Unfortunately for both of them, Warlock’s seventh birthday party was in two hours, and he had very loudly expressed his wish a giant black snake would attend, so Aziraphale had done his utter best to fashion him one.

Altering a two-person horse costume, Crowley suspected.

“If you hadn’t spent so much time convincing him snakes are the best creatures on this planet—”

“Okay, fine, yes, I’ll help.” Crowley smoothed down his skirt, already knowing this was going to be a long, long afternoon. “What do I have to do?”

Aziraphale lit up like a Christmas tree. “Let’s try it on! I worked so hard on this.”

“Know you did, angel,” Crowley tried to say, but the words got stuck in his throat when he saw Aziraphale undressing, leaving a jumbled mash of consonants in their place. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, well, it gets very hot in there. Have you ever worn a two-person costume?” The angel replied, stepping out of his trousers and standing in nothing but an undershirt and a pair of striped boxers.

“Pfuh,” Crowley replied.

He began undressing too, painfully aware of Aziraphale’s ban on miracles as he kicked away his heels, let his skirt drop to the floor, unbuttoned and took off his shirt, and was left in nothing but fishnet hold-ups and black lace underwear.

He enjoyed feeling a little fancy, thought there was nothing wrong with it. He just wasn’t planning on showing any of it to Aziraphale, is the thing.

The angel looked at him like he’d just been struck by lightning and had to try and figure out how his body worked all over again.

“So,” Crowley pushed through the awkward silence. “Let’s do this.”

He took the costume from Aziraphale and stepped into it. After a moment, Aziraphale followed his lead, wearing the butt part of the snake.

Unlike the angel, Crowley was lucky enough to have two badly cut holes to look through, so he did, twisting around until he found a mirror. And what a view he saw.

Aziraphale had forgotten the left ear on, but at least he’d removed most of the horse’s mane and tail. He’d added a tiny red tongue dangling from its mouth, and a long snake tail that wasn’t half bad. The effect was completely ruined by the fact that Aziraphale very clearly didn’t know how to wear the costume, though.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed, beginning to sweat - it really was hot under there. “You have to lean forward a bit. If you stand straight we’re going to look like the weirdest camel the world’s ever seen.”

“Right… right. Er, can I… that is, I’m going to lose my balance if I don’t—”

“Yes, you can put your hands wherever.” Crowley cut him off before it could get any more awkward - which was probably impossible at that point.

The angel did as suggested, bent forward, put both hands on Crowley’s arse, and the demon soon realised he could now feel the gentle push of Aziraphale’s hot, wet breath right between his buttocks.

“Angel,” Crowley whined, the sound sharp and strangled in his throat. Aziraphale didn’t reply, instead tilting forward and beginning to lick at him through the flimsy underwear, fingers sneaking underneath the panties and spreading him open until the angel’s nose was buried between his cheeks.  
  


🐎

  
When it was over, several hours later, Crowley’s stockings were ruined at the knees, his hair was a mess, and Aziraphale was covered in lipstick marks from the nape of his neck to the side of his ankle. Needless to say, the costume was impossible to rescue, suspiciously stained in several places.

Either way, the party must have started and finished a few hours ago. In fact, when Crowley located a clock, he realised it was 7 am in the morning.

“Shitshitshitshitshit _fuck_ I’m late.” He turned around to leave a kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek and the angel, the strap of his undershirt having slipped down his shoulder, looked absolutely adorable as he looked up at him with the beatific smile of the truly well-fucked.

“Have a nice day, my dear,” Aziraphale said as Crowley zipped up his shirt and rushed out the door.

A little while later, as he watched Warlock play in the garden, Mrs Dowling came to stand next to him.

“Don’t think he will forgive you so soon for missing his birthday party,” she said, an eyebrow raised as she took in the absence of stockings.

Crowley stared right back with all the confidence of a demon who could sense every inclination to sin a human had ever felt, and therefore had a hard time feeling judged. “What makes you say that?”

But Mrs Dowling just smiled. “He said his favourite animal is now mongooses.”

“No,” Crowley looked back at her in abject terror. “Not mongooses!”


	34. Under Surveillance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: what do they do when they are apart?

Weirdly enough, Aziraphale had had no objections to Crowley installing the demonic equivalent of a CCTV system in his bookshop. Actually, he’d been very enthusiastic at the idea, agreeing that it’d be for the best, now that they had defied Heaven and Hell. You just don’t rest easy when Sandalphon has your home address, he’d said.

“Right, so, there are four of them,” Crowley had explained when he was done planting them, “This one will let me see your front door. This one is aimed at your desk. The two in the backroom will give me a view of the couch and one of the entire space from above.”

 _Planted_ was the right word for it. They didn’t look like cameras - they didn’t even look like human technology at all. They looked like beautiful houseplants. Leaves so dark they seemed black at first glance poked out from terracotta pots, and a proud calla lily bloomed proud from its stem in the centre. Crowley liked to do things in style, after all.

  
🍆  
  


He’d invented ASMR. He’d heard a lady on the bus whining that she hated when people spoke in such a low voice it was basically a whisper, and he’d felt inspired.

Anyway, the joke had turned on him when he’d realised that he couldn’t fall asleep anymore without listening to some random human rubbing a teddy bear against a wooden surface or whatever. A rather silly habit of his he preferred to keep to himself.

That’s how he’d got the idea, one night, to turn on his TV and check on Aziraphale. The angel was slowly turning pages of a big old book, and only a few minutes of watching him made Crowley fall asleep faster than an antichrist in a wicker basket.

When he woke up in the morning, Aziraphale was sipping his tea as he looked out the window, but he briefly glanced up at the camera-plant and smiled, and Crowley had the impression the angel knew he was watching.

🍆

After that night, it became a ritual. Crowley would come home at night, ‘check that Aziraphale was safe’, and then ‘accidentally’ leave the TV on as he fell asleep to the gentle noises of experienced hands on old paper, or the scratchy sound of Aziraphale’s old gramophone playing some vinyl. Occasionally, the angel would raise his gaze and smile, and Crowley felt like he was looking right at him. He definitely knew Crowley was watching… right?

It was a Sunday night when Crowley got the answer to that question.

After reading for a bit, Aziraphale folded his ridiculous little glasses and left them on the desk. He sat on the sofa in the backroom and slowly removed the nitrile gloves he used to handle his rarest books. Crowley put down his phone to watch.

Aziraphale untied the bowtie at his throat and left it hanging around his neck. Crowley sat up in his armchair.

He undid the first few buttons of his shirt, exposing smooth, milky white skin, and Crowley’s jaw slacked open.

He rolled up his sleeves with quick, precise movements, showing soft, strong forearms covered in golden fuzz inch after inch. Crowley sat on the edge of his seat.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat, unhurried fingers gliding over well-loved velvet. He let it slide off his shoulders and drop to the sofa. Crowley smothered a noise against the back of his fist.

He bent forward to untie his shoes. He took off each shoe with great care, wrapped the delicate shoelaces around a finger until they dug into his pale skin. He tied them into a bow and, when he was done, aligned his shoes neatly by the feet of the sofa. Crowley was throbbing in his jeans.

He took a box of chocolates from the coffee table. He plucked a dark chocolate cherry truffle out of it and lazily pushed it past his lips. He moaned obscenely as he sucked on it, and Crowley gripped his knees until his knuckles turned white.

Then, the angel proceeded to lick his fingers clean, while Crowley tried to remind his lungs how to breathe.

“Well?” The angel asked, looking straight into the camera and pointing at the chocolates. “Are you going to make me finish these all by myself?”

Crowley was out of the door before Aziraphale could finish that sentence.

🍆

While Aziraphale, still technically fully dressed, waited for him - and he was sure it was going to be a very short wait - he looked up at Crowley’s surveillance plants, and wondered: did the demon know his elegant, spotless lilies turned into beautiful sunflowers when he turned on his TV to watch him, following him around as he moved through the bookshop?

And did he know they turned into ivy when he fell asleep, swaying gently as Aziraphale walked by?

And did he know they were currently stuck as plump purple aubergines?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/OLHTCrack/works/26139352) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)!
> 
> And also, my friend [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish) drunk-read out loud [the last 4 chapters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ti3CPdzD5JY&t=446s) and it's, predictably, hilarious.


	35. Philatelist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Roleplays gone wrong.

Chloe is a professional.

She doesn’t bat an eyelid when Aziraphale walks into her bar alone wearing corduroy trousers, an argyle sweater, and a leather messenger bag that has seen better days.

She acts like nothing is weird when he looks around as if he’s never been there before, when he pretends he doesn’t know her at all.

_Ah, this again_.

“Hello.” Aziraphale sits one of the high stools - not without some trouble - and smiles innocently up at her, which she doesn’t buy for a second. “May I have a glass of water?”

She mumbles something that could be a yes and gets him a big glass of cold water. Not that it matters, it’ll go untouched. She gets a rag and pretends to be cleaning the counter as she stares at the entrance.

_Any second now._

Barely a minute passes before Crowley swings the front door open. He— _she?_ —has her hair down today, and tiny cat eye sunglasses perched on her nose. She has broad shoulders and jutting hipbones wrapped in a tiny wine-red dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her high black heels click on the floor as she makes her way to the bar. She sits right next to Aziraphale and swivels around to face him.

_Here we go_.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Crowley asks, leaning towards Aziraphale in a way that, Chloe is sure, gives the man an eyeful of anything that might be going on underneath the plunging neckline of her dress.

But Aziraphale smiles as if he hasn’t noticed. “I don’t know, _can_ you?”

Crowley groans. “ _May_ I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, but I’m afraid I don’t drink much at all…” Chloe almost, _almost_ snorts at that, because she knows that to be a gigantic lie - but she’s a professional, and therefore holds it in, just in time for Aziraphale to turn to her. “Well, I suppose I can make an exception. My dear girl, could we have—”

“A creamsicle and a snakebite. Thank you.” Crowley drops a set of banknotes on the counter that, Chloe is sure, will amount to about five hundred pounds when she’ll count them up. Crowley has been supporting her bar almost single-handedly for the last four years at least, which earns her much more leeway than she’d give any other patron.

It’s not just about the money - it’s also the objective fact that when Crowley is around it’s always a quiet night somehow, with no brawls and no dine-and-dashers. She’s always a welcome guest.

Chloe gives Crowley her creamsicle and Aziraphale his snakebite, then starts polishing some glasses as she listens in.

“I just moved to London,” Crowley says, running her hand through her hair, a golden snake bracelet shining at her wrist. “I could really use a gentleman to show me around. Oh, but I’m afraid I’m rather shy…”

Chloe has never heard anything more false in her life - but she’s a professional, so she focuses on the task at hand. Her glasses are going to be super shiny once she’s done with them.

“If you’d like, I could—” Aziraphale is cut off rather rudely by a young man inserting himself between him and his friend, leaning against the bar and tipping his imaginary hat to Crowley. Chloe rolls her eyes. It’s one of _those_ men.

“Hey there. My boys over there,” he gestures towards one of the tables, “Have all bet you’d never talk to me. Want to help me prove them wrong?”

Chloe doesn’t miss the way Crowley’s matte purple lips twitch in irritation. Before she can speak, though, Aziraphale puts a firm hand on the man’s shoulder.

“My dear fellow,” he says, quietly, and suddenly every person in the bar falls silent and turns towards them. Chloe is willing to bet the temperature in the room has just dropped a few degrees. “What are you doing here, at this time of the night? Shouldn’t you be home with your wife and children? I think little Tommy has just started teething. Wouldn’t it be a great idea to give your spouse a well-deserved break?” The man pales and nods, the expression on his face as if he had a gun pointed at his back. “Right. Off you go then.”

The man rushes out of the bar, his friends close behind him.

Crowley turns to Aziraphale with stars in her eyes. “Oh angel, that was—”

Aziraphale clears his throat loudly. He then extends a hand towards Crowley, who shakes it without ever stopping staring at him as if he’d hung the stars.

_These two old saps._

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am a stamp collector,” Aziraphale states, then opens his bag to pull out a big leather book. He strokes it slowly with his fingers while Crowley stares, biting her lip, completely enraptured, even though it’s the most unsexy thing Chloe has ever witnessed in her entire life. “Would you like to see my… _collection_?”

Crowley’s head snaps towards Chloe. “Bar girl, do you have a backroom we can use?”

Chloe doesn’t need to be told twice. She tosses them the key, nods towards the door.

_As if they don’t know where it is already_.

“Much obliged,” Aziraphale smiles at her while Crowley takes his hand and drags him away.

Chloe doesn’t really mind, they always leave the room cleaner than they find it, and if this silly game is what gets their blood going, hey, who is she to judge?

When the wall behind her starts to shake, making the bottles rattle, she turns up the music, opens herself a coke, and straightens a painting that will soon be crooked again.

After all, Chloe is a professional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had that TikTok song about a boy in corduroy stuck in my head for like two weeks, so I put Aziraphale in corduroy too because why the hell not.
> 
> I don't know if anyone remembers, but Chloe is actually from [an older story of mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905388)! She's an old friend of Crowley's :)


	36. Go down like a Dead Ballon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: crossover (but maintain the logic of both canons).

At this very moment, the Pie-Maker was 31 years, 10 months, 16 days, 9 hours and 51 minutes old. He was putting the finishing touches on a strawberry rhubarb pie that much reminded him of the ones his mother used to make. Unexpectedly, the door of his shop lurched open and a stranger walked in.

“Hello? So sorry to bother you.”

The stranger was a British man in his fifties, with white hair and kind eyes and a body bag swung over one shoulder. It was thundering and lighting outside, but the man seemed to be perfectly dry.

“Can I help you?” The Pie-Maker looked concernedly at the black bag that looked regrettably full.

“Ah, yes, just a moment.” The man walked in and unceremoniously dropped it onto the counter. “Are you the man who wakes the dead?”

“How—how—how—what?” The Pie-Maker panicked, his eyes jumping between the man and the bag.

“Not to worry, I won’t tell a soul. I just need…” The stranger unzipped the bag, revealing the body of a man about the same age as him, with red hair and black glasses. “A small favour, yes. You see, I could go through the proper channels, but that would be a bit of an annoyance, what with us being retired now. Oh, and they _really_ don’t approve of our partnership, there would be so many forms to fill—”

As the man prattled on, the Pie-Maker’s brain caught up with what was happening and produced a reply. “I-I can’t, I’m sorry. If I bring him back, someone else has to die.”

“Oh dear. Who?”

“I don’t know. Random proximity thing.” The Pie-Maker scrunched up his face as he tried to explain, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “If I revived an ant, another bug would die. If I revived a cat, another small animal would go instead. And if I revived a man—”

“Oh, good news!” The stranger clapped his hands. “This is not a man. He’s a… well, an occult force, so to speak.”

“Oh,” The Pie-Maker said, starting to suspect he was about to agree to what this weird man was asking him to do. He felt like it would a terrible shame to disappoint him, though he didn’t know why. He took a better look at him and an hypothesis began forming in his mind. “What if another… occult force dies when I revive him? Maybe one in close proximity?”

The man just smiled. “That’d be alright, dear boy. I can deal with forms.”

The Pie-Maker shrugged and touched the man—sorry, the man-shaped occult force inside the bag. He felt his power flicker like a lighter running low on fluid.

“I can’t do it. It’s like… it’s like I don’t have enough energy to wake him.”

“Wait.” The stranger made his way to the Pie-Maker’s side of the counter and stood next to him. He touched his fingers with one hand and reached out to touch his friend in the body bag with the other. “Let’s try like this. I’ll amplify your abilities.”

The Pie-Maker thought it was very sweet how far the stranger was willing to go to rescue his friend and tried again.

The occult force in dark glasses sat up, emitting a jarring array of consonants.

“Crowley!” The blond man moved forward to hug him, but the Pie-Maker stopped him just in time, grabbing him by a shoulder.

“Wait! I’m really not sure you can touch him.” Both men turned to look at him, and the Pie-Maker continued. “When I revive someone I can never, ever touch them again, or they’ll go back to being dead. And since you were involved in the process, I’m really not sure what the rules are here.”

The stranger took the Pie-Maker's hand in both of his. “Oh, it must be so very hard for you.”

“It’s fine, most days. I have a girlfriend I brought back, actually. We kiss through cling wrap sometimes.”

The undead occult force was staring at them, frowning as if he didn’t quite understand what was going on yet and was about ready to clock out and go take a very long nap.

“We can’t touch?” He asked as he climbed out of the body bag and swung his legs off the counter. “At all?”

The Pie-Maker shook his head. The kind stranger and the grumpy occult force looked at each other for a long moment, then the latter glanced past the Pie-Maker, towards his kitchen.

“How much cling wrap do you have in this shop?”  
  


🌼  
  


Just outside the Pie Hole, near the trash cans, the corporation of Hastur lay motionless on the concrete, the binoculars he’d been using to spy through the windows still clutched in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen I know I put entirely too much effort in a 800 words crack ficlet but a Pushing Daisies AU has been burning inside me for the longest time don't @ me
> 
> [Live-reading of the last two chapters by the wonderful ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5-oQrR0CBw&t=18s)[Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish)!


	37. Birthday Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: birthday parties.
> 
> This one is extra short because we had to fit it in 2000 characters! _sweats profusely_

They thought it’d be a cute idea to give themselves birthdays. Why not? It’s nice to have a day of the year dedicated to you, even when your birthdays are virtually infinite. Crowley chose December 25th because he said he had a bone to pick with how Christians stole a pagan festivity, though Aziraphale suspected he just liked to get double presents. Aziraphale, much more reasonably, chose September 13th: a good day, he reckoned, not too hot but not cold yet and, coincidentally, Daniel Defoe’s birthday too.

So he’s expecting some sort of surprise when he walks into Crowley’s flat that day. And indeed, when he makes his way to the bedroom, he finds the demon naked on his bed, among sheets and pillows that are as white as whipped cream. He has decorated himself - surely using a few miracles - with pink macaroons and strawberries, as well as numerous tea lights resting on his bare hips, chest, and stomach. A big, wine-red rose covers whatever genitals he’s chosen to have that day.

“Oh my.” Aziraphale chuckles. “Are you my birthday cake?”

Crowley smirks. “What do you think?”

“I think you are. And I think I’m supposed to blow you.”

Crowley makes a complicated noise somewhere in his throat. “Right, right, yes. I had thought of that. Of course.”

Aziraphale climbs onto the bed, running a hand up Crowley’s leg. He guides him to fold it and to lift his knee towards his chest so that Aziraphale can dip his head down and lick his way from Crowley’s arsehole up to whatever he’ll find on the front—but stops short when he spots a camera on a tripod beside the bed.

“What is _that_?” The angel pulls back immediately - but not without stealing a macaroon first. “And why didn’t you tell me about it?”

Crowley’s eyes go wide, and he shifts a little too quickly, making the wax from one of the candles drip onto his nipple, hissing at the pain. “Oh, yes, right, sorry, I forgot. Just thought later on we could both…”

Aziraphale looks at the wax quickly solidifying on Crowley's reddened skin. “Watch me eat cake?”


	38. Slice of Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: jobs.

Aziraphale thought this whole business was ridiculous.

Only Crowley would have the cheek to open a bakery right in front of the bookshop after they’d had a fight and call it “Slice of Heaven Bakery” to spite him. How childish. Aziraphale wasn’t going to pay him any mind. He surely wasn’t going to walk over there, swing the door open, and glare at the counter of delicious-looking pastries until Crowley came out of the back.

“Good morning, angel.” Crowley said, his black apron clinging to his frame in a way that had to be diabolical. Also, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the two handprints of flour on either side of his crotch. That _had_ to be on purpose. “What can I get you?”

“You can stop this ridiculous rouse right now, Crowley.” Aziraphale crossed his arms on his chest. “I know we had a disagreement, but this is absurd.”

“Disagreement?” Crowley brought a cannoli to his lips and swiped the cherry off its end with his forked tongue. “Oh, _that_? That’s got nothing to do with this. I just felt like opening a bakery. Thought I’d get a job, now that we’re retired.”

“Oh, don’t be daft.” Aziraphale was losing his patience, and it had nothing to do with the way Crowley had lips wrapped around the fried pastry of the cannoli, sucking the cream out of it in a way that was positively obscene. “You did not open this place right under my nose and choose that ridiculous name by coincidence.”

Crowley, who had finished his snack, licked the powder sugar off his lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Anyway, would you care to try some? I have called this one ‘angel rump’.” He showed Aziraphale a cupcake-sized dessert covered in pink-orange marzipan. The resemblance to a plump peach was uncanny.

Aziraphale produced his best scandalised gasp. “You fiend!”

“What?” Crowley shrugged as he took an _angel rump_ for himself, locking eyes with Aziraphale as he slowly ran his tongue along the cleft. “They’re very popular, you know.”

“I demand you stop this right now.”

“Fine, what about a savoury option? My bagels are so good people wonder whether I’ve sold my soul to the devil.” Crowley winked at him, and Aziraphale blushed.

In anger, of course.

The demon picked up a bagel and put it on a small plate for him, swinging his hips this way and that as he walked around the counter to deliver it directly into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Smoked salmon and cream cheese. Oh, wait.” He ran his finger along the hole of the bagel and licked the cheese off of it. He grinned. “It seems I did a sloppy job with this.”

Aziraphale almost dropped the bagel to the floor. “Fine, I’ll admit it! I am the one with the filthiest ideas between you and me! Are you happy now?”

“No,” Crowley took the plate from him and set it on the counter. He put a hand on the angel’s back and pulled him close. “But you know what would?”

“Making love over the tableful of profiteroles you have in the back?”

Crowley’s eyes went wide and he grinned against Aziraphale’s lips. “See? The absolute _filthiest_ ideas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [sketches](https://singasongrightnow.tumblr.com/post/630672773929435136/show-chapter-archive) of Crowley being a filthy filthy demon by [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon)! THANK YOU 🤍🤍🤍


	39. Angel Cooties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bosses and supervisors.

The moment his knees hit the ground, Crowley knows they’re in deep shit.

Ligur stands next to him, looking down on him with all the contempt a demon and a chameleon can manage while they wait.

Soon enough, Hastur appears through a crack in reality, bringing Aziraphale along with him.

 _Shit shit shit_.

“I demand you unhand me immediately,” Aziraphale is saying, and Hastur reluctantly lets go of his elbow to shove him forward.

Crowley and Aziraphale lock eyes for a long moment, and the angel realises what exactly is happening here.

“That’s right,” Ligur grins, a hand on Crowley’s shoulder to keep him down. “We know all about you two. We saw you, the other day—” he shivers, his mouth twisting in disgust, “ _Kissing_ just outside the Ritz.”

Aziraphale is immediately stunned into silence.

“So why did you bring us here?” Crowley asks, just to deflect attention away from the angel, even as Ligur’s hand grips his shoulder so tight it hurts.

“We wanted to see your best friend’s face as we break the news to him,” Ligur says, and all three demons turn to look at Aziraphale again. “Before we alert our superiors and sit back and watch you get what you deserve.”

The angel’s face is completely blank for a long moment, while Crowley’s brain works furiously to think of some way to get them out of this mess and comes up empty.

Then, Aziraphale chuckles.

He fucking _chuckles_.

“Oh my, this is hilarious,” he turns to Hastur, who’s looking at him like maybe Aziraphale has lost in mind - and, honestly, Crowley is wondering the very same thing. “You thought that was a gesture of—of _affection_?”

Hastur and Ligur exchange quick glances.

“What else could it be?” Hastur asks.

“Oh, that is astoundingly foolish, even for a demon.” Aziraphale shakes his head, tutting. “If you thought about it for a moment, which I can see you didn’t, you would realise I was using the most powerful weapon at my disposal.”

“And what is it?” Hastur stares at him, wide black eyes wide as intelligent as a muddy pool.

“Love,” Aziraphale replies, opening his arms and looking up at the heavens, the perfect image of an angel on a mission for God. “Demons cannot stand Love. I wasn’t _kissing_ him, like you so crudely put it. I was _torturing_ him, which you would have noticed if you had looked more closely.”

Crowley thinks about Aziraphale pushing him against a wall and rubbing his thigh furiously against his boner. He decides that ‘torturing’ is a bit of an artistic licence in this case.

“He’s lying!” Ligur lets go of Crowley to take a step forward. “That can’t be true.”

Aziraphale straightens out his bowtie. “But it is. I can give you a demonstration, if you’d like.”

Both Hastur and Ligur are taken aback by that. They glance at each other, then look down at Crowley, who shrugs. Lacking a plan of his own, he’ll stick to whatever Aziraphale is doing.

“Go ahead,” Ligur gestures to Hastur, who takes a step back instead.

“What? No. I’m not doing it.”

“What’s wrong, Hastur?” Crowley blows a strand of hair away from his face and grins. “Afraid you’ll turn into a prince?”

Sadly, the joke is wasted on his two colleagues, but out of the corner of his eye he spots Aziraphale struggling to keep a straight face.

“I’m rather busy, you know,” Aziraphale informs them as he gestures for Hastur to come closer. “Come on now. Let’s make this quick.”

Hastur turns to Ligur one last time in hopes to be rescued, but his partner is staring at him with the steely gaze of someone who won’t take no for an answer. The frog demon growls and steps closer to Aziraphale.

“Now,” the angel takes Hastur’s hands as gingerly as one would pick up a bag of dog poop and guides them on his shoulders. Hastur looks like he’s about to throw up, even greener in the face than he usually is. “I will show you the power of Love.”

Aziraphale shifts forward, but Hastur leans back. His almost non-existent eyebrows are drawn all the way up on his big forehead, his entire body rigid like a frozen fish fillet. Aziraphale presses on, grabbing the demon at the waist and pulling him closer until he can leave the lightest of kisses on Hastur’s wobbling lips.

For a moment, nobody speaks.

Then, Hastur is propelling himself backwards and rubbing his mouth with his sleeve, which really can only do more damage than good if his goal is to clean himself up. He sputters and spits and puts as much distance between himself and the angel as he can manage.

“Let’s go, Ligur! We can’t bring this up with Beelzebub, they’ll laugh in our face!” Ligur hesitates by Crowley’s side. “Or would you rather try it out yourself?”

Aziraphale looks at Ligur with the brightest smile he can manage.

“You’re right.” Ligur grits out. “But we’ll be back, you vermin.”

The two demons leave immediately, not turning back once as Crowley stands up from the ground and shakes the dust off his jeans.

“That was brilliant, angel. Absolutely bloody brilliant. How did you come up with that?”

Aziraphale drops his shoulders with a long sigh. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you.” Crowley puts a hand on the small of his back, rubs comforting circles against it. “Can I get you anything?”

Aziraphale nods, looking slightly sick. “All the mouthwash you can manage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry


	40. Babysitting Duties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the Them.

Here’s a little well-known secret: Aziraphale really, really, _really_ doesn’t like children.

They are sticky. And shouty. And they always want things. Why do they always want things?

Aziraphale tried, for a short time, to forbid children and their sticky hands from coming into his bookshop. He found out quickly that, while perfectly legal on English ground, such a restriction would get him a lot of shouty adults, and therefore it wasn’t worth the trade.

Which is why, when Adam’s parents ask him and Crowley to please, please babysit their child and his friends, _just for one day_ , _you’re the only ones who can deal with Adam’s supernatural abilities_ , Aziraphale is more than happy to let Crowley handle it.

He brings a book with him and sits comfortably in Mr Young’s armchair while Crowley entertains the children. Here is a list of things he sees during the day, in no particular order:

  * Crowley using hibiscus tea to make ‘blood’ and serve it out of Wensleydale’s pink and green toy tea set. Pepper insists they are too old for this game, but nobody listens, and eventually she decides to join in.
  * The five of them playing knights, with Adam on Crowley’s back and Pepper on Wensleydale’s. Adam declares himself the black knight, which Aziraphale finds very funny, and announces he’s keeping Prince Brian captive. Crowley dubs himself a ‘hellhorse’, whatever that is, and plays along.
  * Crowley trying very hard to teach them how to play chess, eventually giving up and letting them have a competition to see who can pile up the tallest stack of chess pieces.
  * Crowley trying and succeeding to teach them the lyrics to Ramones’ Blitzkrieg Bop, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin.
  * Wensleydale and Pepper insisting they play angels and demons (where, obviously, Wensleydale wants to be an angel and Pepper wants to be a demon). Crowley laughing and letting them do it, even miracling them silly costumes, until Pepper takes Wensleydale’s hand and declares they are married now, because that’s just how things go between angels and demons. Thankfully, while Crowley chokes on his own spit, Adam steps in and explains that, actually, it isn’t common at all for angels and demons to be friends, and Pepper very happily lets go of her friend’s hand.
  * Crowley telling them scary stories in the dark, a flashlight illuminating his face dramatically from below, and then regretting it immediately it when all the kids cuddle up on him, seeking reassurance.
  * All of them playing some computer game called ‘Mine Craft’. Crowley mutters something about how one of the zombies reminds him of an old coworker of his, and none of the kids get it. But Aziraphale does, and smiles.
  * The kids painting Crowley’s nails. Pepper makes his pinkies blue, green, and pink; Adam chooses a flashy gold for his ring fingers; Wensleydale uses a beige on his thumbs; and Brian paints the rest of his nails a total black, letting all of them know he thinks that’s the colour that best suits Crowley. None of them question how Crowley keeps pulling out whatever nail polish they want out of his pockets.
  * Crowley making them snacks. He cuts toasted slices of bread into swords, cars, and snakes. Some of them come out better than others. The children eat all of them anyway.
  * The five of them watching a movie, sitting together on the carpet, until all the children fall asleep.



When Mr and Mrs Young come back, Aziraphale realises he has not read a single page of his book, or if he has, he doesn’t remember a thing. Crowley has dozed off too, his back against the sofa, so Aziraphale shakes his shoulder gently, and the demon wakes up with a smile.

It’s been a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013693) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion)!


	41. Stress Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for this prompt myself, because I always think ‘lol nobody’s going to take me seriously’.
> 
> I was taken very seriously.
> 
> Prompt: tentacles.

When Aziraphale said Heaven assigned him a tough mission that would require him to disguise himself, and therefore drastically change his appearance, Crowley decided to get him a little present to take his mind off the job. He knows how much his angel hates change, how nervous it makes him.

But Aziraphale has taken one look at his surprise, raised an eyebrow, and turned back towards the mirror.

That’s how Crowley ended up sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the angel do his make-up, one demonic tool sitting on his knees, untouched. To be honest, Crowley is feeling quite like a demonic tool himself.

Aziraphale adjusts the generously sized breasts inside his lacy bra. “And what is that supposed to do, exactly?” He asks, without looking away from his own reflection.

“Uh,” Crowley turns the tool - a golden brown ball that is smooth and soft to the touch - in his hands. “Never tried one of these. Heard they have tentacles. Supposed to feel really nice, according to some. And I’ve heard they can dispense a potent aphrodisiac too.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale seems to consider this while he carefully curls his eyelashes with a very dangerous-looking device - making Crowley wince and once again wonder why can’t the angel, just for once, use a miracle to style himself instead. “Well? Are you going to show me?”

Crowley almost drops the ball - literally. “Uh, oh, yeah, sure, I’ll—” He fumbles with the fly of his jeans.

“No,” Aziraphale says, blinking into the mirror to check his eyelashes. “Let it rip them.”

_Oh fuck, oh sweet unholy fuck._ Crowley scrambles back onto the bed in what is surely a graceless, clumsy manner. He doesn’t even care. He’d planned for Aziraphale to release some tension, and if this is the way the angel wants to go about it, well - he has no objections at all.

He lies on his back, taps the ball twice, and it immediately erupts into a mass of tentacles. Suddenly, there is a tremendous amount of movement all at once: Crowley is pulled in four directions, spread flat on the bed, his clothes ripped from his body just as Aziraphale asked.

Strong tentacles wrap around his arms and legs, and yet Aziraphale isn’t even looking at him, slowly twisting open a pink lipstick he must have got back in the 80s. Crowley hates that he finds this entire ordeal extremely fucking hot.

He tries to call for Aziraphale, to make him turn around and look at him, but the moment he opens his lips to speak a tentacle slaps him across the face and gags him.

“Hmph—!”

“You know, Crowley, I’m not an expert, but…” Aziraphale applies the lipstick and smacks his lips together twice, the deep line between his eyebrows signalling he’s not at all happy with his make-up skills. “I think this would be a good time for that aphrodisiac you were talking about.”

The tentacles turn a bright pink-red colour and Crowley feels warmth pouring in from every single point of contact - his wrists, his arms, up along his legs, over his mouth and cheeks, even on his tongue. The heat spreads from his limbs to the centre of his body, his spine arching against the mattress, his head tilting back, his body a taut curved line, from the vulnerable skin of his throat to the peak of his nipples to the hard, jutting cock between his thighs.

He tries to get a hand on himself before he loses his goddamn mind, but the tentacles won’t let him, wrapped tight around him, keeping him pinned to the bed. His hips jerk forward of their own accord, thrusting against nothing, and he gives a whining moan as he feels his own spit dribbling down his cheek.

He can’t see what Aziraphale is doing, but he can hear a faint scratching sound - a hairbrush, maybe. The angel still isn’t paying him much attention at all, and Crowley grips the tentacles with both hands, equally frustrated and turned on at the thought.

“I think you could have one of those going inside you - I imagine they’d be quite apt at finding your prostrate,” Aziraphale says casually, as if he’s talking about the weather. “And maybe another one on your chest, what do you think? They have those - ah, what are they called? _Suckers_.”

Crowley gives a frantic nod and immediately feels a slimy tentacle sliding between his buttocks, just like Aziraphale suggested, pressing inside him and rubbing against the spot that makes him see stars. Another tentacle wraps around his chest, its suction cups rubbing against his sensitive nipples.

With the aphrodisiacs pumping inside him he’s already desperate to come, he would like nothing more than Aziraphale’s soft hand to wrap around him and bring him there, but he can’t talk, he can’t ask for what he wants, all he can do is make desperate noises muffled by the tentacle in his mouth.

He hears the sound of Aziraphale’s chair against the floor - is he standing up? is he coming over to him? - and realises he’s trembling in wait.

A shock of warmth touches the head of his cock - and he doesn’t even finish thinking that Aziraphale’s pink lips are sucking him off before he comes, completely unable to stop, the tentacles holding him down as everything goes blank for a long, blissful moment.

When he comes back down the little demonic beast has let him go, and Aziraphale is looking at him, Crowley’s spend dripping down his chin.

“Shit,” Crowley breathes out, but it’s such an erotic sight his dick gives a spent twitch against his thigh.

“You were right, I’ll admit it.” Aziraphale presses his handkerchief to his face, dignifiedly cleaning himself up. “This really was a great distraction. I feel a little better now.”

Crowley makes a sound that means nothing and everything, a disgruntled crash of consonants with no actual meaning - trying to say, at the same time, _you’re welcome,_ and _what the fuck was that,_ and _jesus fucking christ,_ and _I’ll help you fix the make-up I ruined_.

Instead, he takes a deep, steadying breath, and clear his throat. “Ah, you know me. Always glad to help.”


	42. Chain Reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: clones.
> 
> Y'all know where this is going.

Crowley is everywhere, and it feels _unbelievable_.

There’s a Crowley underneath him, lazily sucking on his balls, and Aziraphale would be happy to return the favour if his mouth wasn’t currently being used by another Crowley, sitting in front of him with his legs spread apart. This Crowley has a hand in his hair and is gently nudging him closer, until Aziraphale’s nose sinks into the rough hair at the base of his cock. Aziraphale’s eyes roll back and he makes an extremely embarrassing noise when the stiff head nudges the back of his throat. It’s too much, there is just too much happening all at once, and he’s not sure of anything beyond Crowley’s taste on his tongue, the gentle brushing of the demon’s thighs against his cheeks as he bobs his head - good Lord, Crowley has such wonderful thighs. He could spend hours lavishing them with attention. He should. He will.

Of course, he can’t forget about the Crowley behind him, the one who’s spreading him apart and slowly beginning to push inside him. Or the Crowley by his side - which Aziraphale suspects might be the original Crowley - who’s only claimed one of Aziraphale’s hands for himself, three digits sunk deep past his lips to suck on while he languidly strokes himself. Sometimes this Crowley will pause, pick up his phone, and snap a few pictures, and Aziraphale - ah, he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, this is not dignified at all - closes his eyes and arches his back a little more, moaning helplessly as he imagines what photographs will be left of this whole experience to savour later, once they’re done.

In 6000 years, he never thought he’d end up here on his knees, surrounded by Crowleys all around, but, well - he’s aware he has 6000 years of repression on his shoulders, and maybe it’s alright that they’re going a little wild now.

As wild as the idea of getting Crowley to clone himself for sex might be, though, the whole thing is slow, unhurried, and surreal. Aziraphale has been aroused for so long now he feels like he’s floating. There is no urgency to finish, just the hot, gently simmering pleasure of drifting on the plateau he’s reached.

Insofar as his addled mind is able to imagine, he thinks he knows how this is going to go. A Crowley will come in his mouth, and then Aziraphale intends to suck off the one underneath him too. The Crowley behind him will come inside his arse and, most likely, he’ll be followed by the actual Crowley, fucking into the spend of his own clone.

And isn’t that a thought?

As for Aziraphale, well - his orgasm is almost an afterthought. Just the cherry on top of a mind-boggling experience, really.

And it’s all going great, until the Crowleys start arguing.

It begins when the Crowley with the phone wants to take a picture of Aziraphale’s anus stretched tight around the other Crowley’s cock.

“Slow down, they’re coming out all blurry.”

“Nghyeah, I don’t think that matters,” the Crowley that’s fucking Aziraphale replies over the filthy sound of his hips slapping against his arse.

“It matters to me,” protests the Crowley with the phone, and Aziraphale feels the fingers of the Crowley he’s blowing tightening in his hair.

“Would you guys shut up? I’m so close, fuck—”

“You shut up,” reply the other two Crowleys simultaneously. Which isn’t weird at all, considering that they are the same person.

The voice of the Crowley underneath him is muffled against Aziraphale’s balls, but it sounds something like _you’re ruining this, stop it._

An angel knows when it’s time to take things into his own hands - so to speak. He pulls back with an obscene, wet sound from the dick he’s sucking, wrapping his hand around its length instead.

“Enough,” he snaps, craning his neck back to look at the original Crowley. “Make another one of you.”

“What? That won’t solve anything, it’ll just be one more of me to argue with.”

“Just do it.”

Crowley shrugs, focuses - and duplicates himself before Aziraphale’s eyes, and there are now two identical demons kneeling side by side on the bed, their stiff cocks bobbing in unison. Which Aziraphale would find funny, at any other time.

“Now what?”

“Move so I can see you without getting a crick in my neck.” Aziraphale waits for them to obey before continuing. “Good. Now kiss each other.”

Aziraphale can tell from the surprised look on all of the Crowleys’ faces that this is something Crowley had never considered. It must’ve never occurred to him that, if he cloned himself, he could kiss himself. Most likely, he was completely focused on what he could do for Aziraphale instead.

Except this is for Aziraphale too.

Tentatively, the two Crowleys scoot closer to each other, both standing up on their knees. Aziraphale watches with growing interest as their cocks brush together and they both squirm at the same time. Come to think of it, why hasn’t he asked for this before? It’s such an erotic sight he can hardly bear it, and yet he can’t look away.

The Crowleys reach out to touch each other’s faces, and it’s surprisingly gentle and tentative, and Aziraphale can’t tear his eyes off of them. One Crowley runs his thumb slowly along the bottom lip of his clone, and the other slides his tongue out to lick at it, then captures it in his mouth and sucks it off, looking his partner in the eyes as he does.

“Fuck,” says the Crowley that’s lodged deep in his arse, and Aziraphale has to agree. Even the Crowley he’s jerking off has his face turned to watch the two Crowleys making out. The Crowley under him has moved on to suck his cock instead, and makes an interrogative noise around it that nobody has an answer for.

The kiss between the two Crowleys deepens, and Aziraphale somehow catches their little moans of pleasure over the sound of the blood roaring in his ears. One Crowley grabs the other at the the hips and presses them close together, and it’s, without a doubt, the most arousing thing Aziraphale has ever seen in his entire existence.

When one of the Crowleys reaches down with two hands to grasp at both their cocks and begins jerking them off at the same time, Aziraphale realises he’s already on the brink of an orgasm, almost despite himself. The Crowley underneath him, bless him, wraps his unnaturally long tongue around him, and it feels so obscene and blissful that Aziraphale never wants it to end, and yet is helpless to stop himself.

“Crowley—Crowley, please, _please_ keep doing that—oh, don’t stop now, please, don’t stop, I’m—”

He comes in long, lavish spurts into the mouth of the Crowley that’s sucking him off, which in turn makes the Crowley behind him swear loudly and snap his hips forward, spilling inside him. The Crowley under him reaches down to jerk himself off furiously, and he comes just as the Crowley in front of him spills all over Aziraphale’s fist.

The two Crowleys on the side, in the meantime, have tilted over, the one on top fucking his own hand, rubbing his cock against his copy’s until they both come, a sticky white mess all over the stomach of the Crowley on the bottom, who runs a hand through it and brings the finger to the other’s mouth to let him taste it.

Aziraphale doesn’t remember how to form words, he might have lost that skill forever. Well, fine - not forever, but for a while, surely. It’s alright. Little by little, the Crowleys clean him up and soon enough he finds himself sandwiched between them under the covers. A Crowley fluffs up his pillow, another brushes his hair, and a third kisses the back of his neck.

The last thing Aziraphale thinks, before falling asleep, is that it’s a bit of a shame he can’t keep them all forever. But there’s only a certain amount of arguing he’s willing to put up with daily, and, even though he’d never say it aloud, he loves bickering with Crowley, singular, every single day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Djap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan) for the [wonderful podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27163042) of this chapter!


	43. In Each Other's Pockets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: tiny

He hadn’t planned for this to happen.

He’d just woken up after accidentally passing out from a night of drinking together and thought, ‘ _oh shit, I’ve fallen asleep on top of Aziraphale’._

His fantasies, generally speaking, centred around sleeping _with_ Aziraphale, although sleeping _on top of_ Aziraphale was a close second.

That’s not the point.

The point is, Aziraphale had chosen that exact moment to stir and Crowley had panicked, and in the split moment he had to make a decision, his snake instincts had started screaming, his rational brain had suggested he disappeared, and he’d… well. He’d combined the two things and ended up as a very tiny snake. Barely the size of a pencil, really. And then he’d panicked some more and sneaked into Aziraphale’s pocket, where it was safe, warm, and dark.

Which calmed down his snake brain just enough to realise what a great sodding idiot he’d been. He’d gone and got himself _trapped_. In Aziraphale’s pocket, no less. And the angel, bastard that he was, would never let him live this one down.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale had called out, just to sigh when the demon seemed to be nowhere to be found. Then he’d got off the sofa with a grunt and went about his day.

The problem with hiding in the pocket of an angel who doesn’t really go to sleep at night is that he doesn’t really change into pyjamas at all. Which means that, as Crowley soon realised, he was stuck in the pocket of Aziraphale’s trousers for an indefinite amount of time.

_Shit._

He sat in Aziraphale’s pocket quietly as the angel went out for breakfast. He got a slice of cheesecake and a cup of tea for an absurdly expensive price and sat in a quiet booth to enjoy it. He was moaning obscenely around his fork in a way that made the scales on Crowley’s back twitch when some man walked up to him and started very blatantly hitting on him.

Not that Aziraphale noticed. Aziraphale didn’t seem to find it weird at all that this random man would ask him what tea he just got because ‘it smelled very nice’. Nor did he think it was peculiar when this stranger, upon hearing he had a bookshop, asked for address and phone number so he could ‘pop in for a look’.

That’s when Crowley decided he’d had enough and, making sure Aziraphale couldn’t see him, poked his head out of the pocket and hissed silently at the man, mentally telegraphing at him to not even _dare_ say something aloud. The man - a disturbingly good-looking human in his mid-forties that looked like a college professor and had every cell in Crowley’s tiny body scream _murder,_ took one look at him and hurried away, and Crowley slid back into the warm pocket, patting himself on the back - metaphorically speaking, as he had no hands at all at the moment.

It was a lot of fun to watch Aziraphale being politely rude to customers during the day. From ‘sorry, I was just about to close’ randomly in the middle of the morning (and then forgetting, and keeping the shop open another half an hour), to ‘yes, I have that book, but you cannot touch it for reasons I can’t explain’. Aziraphale’s particular brand of bastardry had always been appealing to Crowley, but seeing it so up close reminded him how much he loved it, how it was both familiar and hilarious to watch - when he was using it against someone else.

The absolute best thing, though, was to watch Aziraphale trying to explain to a customer that yes, he did indeed have the book she was looking for, and yes, the price was correct, but no, she couldn’t buy it.

In the end, he had to use some mind control to make the human leave, because of course she kept insisting that if the book was there, and she had the money to buy it, she couldn’t see any reason she couldn’t get it.

It was a really nice day, all in all, and when Aziraphale went upstairs to his small bedroom Crowley thought he’d be off the hook soon. Maybe the angel was going to take a brief nap and he could sneak away, and Aziraphale would be none the wiser.

Aziraphale lay on his bed with a pleased sigh as his body sunk into the obscenely plush mattress. Seriously, it was the kind of mattress that could swallow a person whole and Crowley, whose mattress was so hard and thin it was like sleeping on a slab of rock, couldn’t for the life of him understand how that’d be comfortable.

Aziraphale slid out of his cardigan and undid the buttons of his waistcoat. He run his hands down his chest with a little happy sound and Crowley just had to take a peek and see what was going on. He snuck his tongue out first and remained frozen for a long moment with his tongue hanging in the air like an idiot when he tasted _lust_. Oh, yes, that was definitely lust, thick and sweet, and the fact that it was emanating from his angel would have made his jaw drop, had he had a jaw at all.

Aziraphale popped open the button of his trousers and Crowley realised he had to say something immediately, before he accidentally watched his best friend jerk off. Which was a thing he had given way too much thought about, but _not like this, never like this_.

“ _Asssiraphale_!” He pushed out of the pocket and stood - well, as much as snakes can stand, at any rate - up so that the angel would see him.

Contrary to his expectations, Aziraphale didn’t seem surprised at all to see him. Instead, he hooked a finger under Crowley’s head and rubbed in a way that made his skin tingle and his eyes close as he relaxed into the touch. “Took you long enough. Thought I’d have to do everything by myself.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, as the full implications of what Aziraphale had just said settled in his tiny serpent brain.

Yes, he decided, he really loved it when Aziraphale was a bit of a bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAA LOOK!! [Tiny snake Crowley](https://twitter.com/zerazukin/status/1322112421163606018) as drawn by [zera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zera/pseuds/zera)!


	44. That Time Aziraphale Asked for a Handjob in the Most Roundabout Way Possible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: that's not how you use...

This is it. This is his chance.

Aziraphale has accepted Crowley’s invitation to visit the _thermae_ with a long-suffering sigh, as it’s appropriate and even expected of him. In truth, he’s been dying to go, but couldn’t have very well found an excuse to do so without a wily demon tempting him to. Though the pleasant, invigorating waters of the thermae are not the only reason he’s so excited to go there.

Crowley has insisted they go at night, when they won’t be disturbed, and Aziraphale has to admit it makes for quite a captivating setting. The fire dances and crackles in the braziers, its warm light reflected by the shiny, colourful tiles, and the water laps gently at the edges of the pools with a soothing sound.

He finds Crowley reclined on a _triclinium_ which, he’s pretty sure, is not generally a fixture of this kind of places. Not that Aziraphale would know. He’s been very focused on his heavenly mission here in Rome, yes he has, took barely any time at all to sample the local wines and dishes, really. And he knows nothing about the baths! Truly. He’s not at all aware he was supposed to disrobe in the _apodyterium_ before making his way to the _caldarium_ , the hottest of the three pools.

Which is where he knew he’d find his snake.

Crowley isn’t undressed either, and Aziraphale is most definitely not disappointed by this fact. Not at all.

“Hello.”

“Oh, hey angel.” Crowley stretches in a causal way that tells Aziraphale he’s been waiting for him for a while now, not sure he’d show up at all. “Ready to take a dip?”

“Most definitely, yes.”

“Go right ahead, I made sure humans wouldn’t disturb us. The place is your—well, oyster.”

Aziraphale will pretend he doesn’t think that’s a funny turn of phrase as he gives Crowley his back and slowly undresses, leaving his belongings on a stone seat nearby. He looks towards the pool. A set of narrow tiled steps interrupt the marble edge and lead gently into the water. Once he’s naked, Aziraphale walks down the steps just enough to get his feet wet. “Oh. That feels very nice. Very nice indeed.”

“Hmmm,” Crowley agrees, sliding off his seat and coming to stand next to Aziraphale. That’s when the demon makes a weird, choking sound. “You haven’t—”

Aziraphale follows Crowley’s gaze right down between his own legs and pretends to be surprised the demon has noticed. “Oh. This? No, I thought it unnecessary.”

“You’re two thousand years old, Aziraphale. It’s very necessary,” Crowley says, then seems to catch himself being a little too passionate about the whole thing and clears his throat. “You’d give a human a heart attack, for a start, if they saw you like that. And second, you have to live among them, you might as well understand them a little better, no? Put yourself in their shoes. So to speak.”

Aziraphale feigns considering Crowley’s opinion for a long moment. “I suppose you’re correct, yes. It would be my duty as an angel to cause as little problems as possible, to blend in and to truly try to understand the humans I’ve vowed to defend as best as I can.”

“Right. So.” Crowley looks away, giving him a moment.

Aziraphale focuses, and it’s not even that hard to give himself a penis. He supposes it’s easy to conjure things into existence when you’ve thought about them a little. Or a lot. Or, well, thought about little else for the last three months, since seeing a drunken Crowley fall over and accidentally bare everything from his preposterous belly button down to his beautiful ankles, as well as everything in between.

He looks down, and there it is. A soft pink appendage, short and thick, a smattering of white hair at the top.

Aziraphale is not new. Like Crowley said, he’s been around for two thousand years. Not only does he know exactly how penises work, he’s seen many of them being used for all sort of things, from sex to impromptu helicopters (which haven’t been invented yet, but that hasn’t stopped men from wagging their penises around, has it now?).

He decides to sit on the edge of the pool and dip his calves in the water as he gets used to the feeling of it. Crowley, still on the steps, drags his tunic over his head and tosses it on the floor behind them, walking into the water stark naked. Aziraphale watches his lithe, lovely body slowly being submerged with growing interest - while _other things_ start growing too, which he doesn’t notice until Crowley does, and by then it’s too late to hide.

“Oh.”

“Ah, a reaction to the—water, the heat… you know,” Crowley stammers, gracious as always. “Don’t worry about it.”

“How do I—” _this is it, this is the moment he’s been waiting for_ , “—get rid of it?”

Crowley looks at him for a long moment. Understands what’s being left unsaid underneath what Aziraphale saying. His movements are a lot more serpentine all of a sudden as he moves back towards the steps, sitting so that the water is up to his solar plexus, side by side with Aziraphale. “Well, you either let it pass, or you do something about it, right?”

“Ah, I’d rather take care of it right away,” Aziraphale says, carefully keeping his eyes on the water. “So I can enjoy the rest of my night, you see.”

“Of course,” Crowley says, and it’s Aziraphale who now hears much more than what’s being said. “Well, if you really wanted to, I suppose you’d start out by touching it.”

Aziraphale pokes his erection with the tip of a finger.

Crowley isn’t even looking at him, and yet he sputters and splashes water around as he turns to him. “Not like that!”

“Then how?” Aziraphale asks, pouring as much innocence as he possibly can into that question.

Crowley looks away again, blushing furiously and trying not to show it. “Wrap your fingers around it.” Aziraphale does just so. It doesn’t feel like much of anything. “Stroke.”

Aziraphale starts moving his hand and, alright - that does feel like something. But it’s not what he had in mind at all. “I don’t know. I think I’m doing something wrong,” he lies shamelessly.

“Oh, for somebody’s sake,” Crowley grumbles perfunctorily as he stands up and dives into the water. Aziraphale watches him swimming away, turning around, and finally resurfacing in front of him. “Make room.”

Aziraphale scoots back a fair amount and plants his feet against the smooth, warm surface of the floor as Crowley pulls himself up and emerges from the pool between his knees. He’s so beautiful Aziraphale is almost sorry there’s no one around to see - somebody should paint this moment, sculpt it, write a song about it.

Crowley kneels between his thighs and sighs. “What do they even teach you up there? How to play the harp?”

“No, no actually…” Aziraphale notices Crowley’s outstretched hand, not yet touching him, but clearly intending to. “Yes. I quite enjoy it, too.”

That’s all the permission Crowley needs before he closes his warm, wet, gentle hand around his cock and begins to tug.


	45. There Is a Crack in Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: pegging.

The trouble was, as they realised quickly, that thinking you know how to do something does not in any way mean you actually know how to do it.

Which is to say that once all the dating and confessing and kissing had been dealt with, Crowley and Aziraphale realised they had no idea how to make an effort.

A capital E Effort. Yes, that _Effort_.

Which led to some pretty frustrating moments, as you might imagine. On one notable occasion, one of them stormed off after furiously rubbing against the other until he was so aroused it was unbearable, and had to stand up and go punch a wall. Aziraphale will deny it was him, but suffice to say there is now an angel-hand-shaped hole in one of the bookshop’s walls, right next to the collection of antique Kamasutras.

Both of them had tried and tried, but try as they might it just wouldn’t happen. No amount of clenching of buttocks and grunting like a professional weight lifter got them to manifest anything between their legs.

Crowley bribed a minor demon to bribe a lesser angel to get them the instructions for it, and Aziraphale thought it conscientious not to attempt any further necking until they got their answer.

Which is why he was not expecting Crowley to storm in, one day, with a small package in his hands and a manic grin from ear to ear.

“Angel! Let’s go!”

“Go…?” Aziraphale put down the book he was reading and gingerly stood up. “Go where?”

“To the bedroom, I’ve found something!”

Which is how they ended up upstairs, in Aziraphale’s tiny bedroom, with the angel himself sitting on the bed while a stark naked Crowley showed him proudly the fashionably black dildo he had strapped to himself. Which, to be honest, Aziraphale found quite affecting. There was one small problem, though.

“But how are you going to use it? I don’t have a quim.”

Crowley cringed visibly at the word. “Uh. I don’t know. Hadn’t really thought that far.”

Aziraphale felt like there was something… something he knew about, something right there on the tip of his tongue. Something he’d seen many times in his time on earth, something that would have been extremely relevant to the current conversation… but then another thought distracted him completely.

“Oh! I have also been to a sexual shop.”

“You _what_?!”

“Well, needs must, my dear, and I was rather upset about our problem.” He stood up and crouched to pull a box out from under the bed. “The young human at the counter took one look at me and said this would be perfect for me.”

The demon almost choked when he realised he was being shown a fleshlight, even though Aziraphale thought it was quite an elegant one, entirely black and glossy, just as Crowley liked. But he understood his surprise, he too had been shocked once he’d got home and realised what it was. Not to mention even more depressed to have bought a tool he couldn’t possibly use in his current state.

“Would you try?” He asked Crowley with that particular inflection in his voice that always granted him a yes. Crowley stared at him blankly for a few seconds before shrugging and nodding. Aziraphale pointed at a nearby armchair. “Jolly good. I’m going to sit there and watch, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re just going to watch?! Aziraphale, this is not why I’m—”

“Oh, please, Crowley, I’d really like to.”

“Fine!” Crowley crawled on the bed, dildo swinging wildly left and right as he moved. “But I’m putting this between two pillows, it’s creepy to see.”

“Very well, as you wish.”

🍑

The first ten minutes had been rather awkward, but then Crowley had found his rhythm. Coincidentally, he began finding his rhythm and enjoying himself when Aziraphale started praising him.

“Oh Lord, look at you…” Aziraphale let his eyes rake over Crowley’s body, glistening with sweat as he pushed in and out, a hand digging into the pillow to hold down the toy. His face was turned away from Aziraphale and his eyes were screwed shut, as if the urges to hide away and to be seen were fighting one another and neither of them was winning. His lips were parted and he was blushing, though Aziraphale wouldn’t have dared mention it - mostly for fear he’d stop his cheeks from reddening, and that’d be a terrible loss. “My gorgeous darling. Oh, I could sit here and watch you all day.”

Crowley grunted something that sounded like the angel’s name and Aziraphale came closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. He took Crowley’s free hand in his and kissed his palm.

“Yes, you’re doing so well. You are so good to me, Crowley.” The demon made a hurt noise in his throat as Aziraphale pressed his lips to the veins on his wrist. They might have never managed to reach an orgasm, but by now he knew exactly what to say to make Crowley lose his mind. “Stunning. And lovely. And _mine_.”

He took two of Crowley’s fingers in his mouth, slowly and carefully sucking on them as he looked up at his face. Crowley was panting and making low, guttural noises as he kept working his hips, his split snake tongue flicking out to wet his lips. The black straps around his slim hips and thighs that flexed with every movement made for a fascinating show.

Almost absent-mindedly, Aziraphale reached out to pinch one of the demon's nipples as he kept staring at the smooth skin over hipbone, as he basked in the beautiful sounds Crowley was making, and was very surprised to see his hips stutter suddenly. The demon’s golden eyes flew open and his whole body tensed in a perfect arch, head tilted back as he clung to the pillow and Aziraphale’s hand for dear life.

He gave a few, deep thrusts and then went completely still.

Aziraphale waited a few moments. “Did you just…”

“Fuck, I think so? Yeah. Oh, fuck. Yeah, yes.”

Crowley flopped back onto the bed, boneless, and Aziraphale lay next to him, head over his shoulder. He was the littlest bit envious, but knew perfectly well - his time would come.

And, well, he’d come too, hopefully soon.

🍑

It was an entire week before they realised.

Aziraphale was listening to music and putting frosting on some chocolate cupcakes he’d just baked in the quant kitchen of his apartment when Crowley came up behind him and hugged him just as he was wiggling his butt to Chopin’s Étude Op. 10, No. 3.

They both gasped when the front of Crowley’s jeans rubbed right between his buttocks.

The cupcakes sat forgotten for three days, until Aziraphale’s neighbours came knocking at his door, because either someone was being tortured or someone was very loudly having the time of his life, but either way they needed to sleep, and yes, yes they would take all the cupcakes as a peace offering, thank you very much.


	46. Trial by Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: sauce.

Aziraphale thinks Crowley is extremely clever.

Aziraphale also thinks Crowley is incredibly daft.

It’s situational, really. Having many spare glasses in his Bentley, just in case he breaks them? Clever. Plying Aziraphale with his favourite wine when he needs a favour? Also clever. Keeping some holy water in his apartment so that when Hell came for him he wasn’t defenceless? Dangerous, but still clever.

Courting Aziraphale like a human male, trying to prove he’s big and strong and impervious to the world’s dangers and inconveniences? _Supremely_ daft.

But that’s exactly what Crowley’s been doing. Walking around without a jacket and a scarf, even though it’s freezing cold out, because ‘it’s not that bad, I can handle it’. Opening doors for Aziraphale and glaring at anyone who so much as looks as if they might bump into his shoulder - as if Aziraphale weren’t perfectly capable of defending himself. Lifting stacks of heavy books for him as if it were nothing, even though his spine creaks and he wobbles on his long, spindly legs as he carries them wherever Aziraphale wants them.

It’d be endearing if it wasn’t so idiotic. Aziraphale supposes that this is Crowley’s way of proving him that he’d be a suitable partner, now that they are free and have the chance to be closer. He must have been taking inspiration from the humans. Probably from those less than intelligent television shows he so loves to watch.

How silly. Doesn’t he know already that Aziraphale does not need to be convinced at all? All Crowley has to do is reach out and kiss him: Aziraphale would say yes. He’s been waiting impatiently for that moment, actually, and maybe this adds to his frustration with the demon’s childish behaviour.

It all comes to a head one night when Crowley saunters into the bookshop with takeout from the nearby Thai restaurant and sprawls on the sofa, taking up as much space as he possibly can. Aziraphale looks down at him unimpressed.

“I asked for the hottest sauce they had,” Crowley declared with a cocky grin as he sets down the food on the coffee table.

“But you don’t like spicy food.”

“What? Yes, I do.” The demon makes it a point to slather an angry red sauce all over his pad thai, and just the smell of it is enough to make Aziraphale’s noise sting. He decides he needs a strong drink to deal with this and fixes himself a bourbon on ice before he settles down in his old armchair.

“Surely you’re kidding,” Aziraphale sighs.

“Surely I’m not.”

And, indeed, Crowley proceeds to take a big forkful of his pad thai and stuff it into his mouth. Aziraphale sits back and watches.

The first thing to turn red is the tip of Crowley’s right ear. Then it’s his cheeks. Then his entire neck, and Aziraphale is willing to bet it extends much farther down than that. Soon enough, Crowley’s eyes fill with tears. They roll down his cheeks while he visibly struggles to keep his expression as stoic and neutral as possible.

Just when Aziraphale is about to have mercy on him and offer him a glass of water, Crowley swallows and immediately rushes to take a second forkful of his food without a moment’s hesitation, apparently dead-set on hurting himself.

Aziraphale can only watch as he turns redder and redder, almost the same colour as his hair, big fat tears still running down his face. This time, when he swallows, he hiccups loudly.

Crowley gasps and stares down at his own stomach in horror, as if he’s just been betrayed by a trusted friend. And then he hiccups again - indignantly, this time.

They stare at each other dumbfounded for a few seconds while Crowley’s hiccups get more and more out of control. Honestly - ridiculous as it is, it’s also rather cute.  
  
Aziraphale sighs. He stands up, brings the bourbon to his lips, and lets an ice cube slide into his mouth. Then he steps closer to Crowley.

“Angel?” Crowley hiccups. “What are you—”

Aziraphale plants a knee between his thighs, cradles Crowley’s jaw in his hand and kisses him. Even Crowley’s lips are hot and swollen against his - silly demon was almost setting himself on fire just to prove himself worthy. Aziraphale deepens the kiss and pushes the ice cube into his mouth and Crowley makes a startled, helpless noise against his lips as he takes it.

When Aziraphale backs away and sits down Crowley’s cheeks are still very red, his mouth is slack, and he has an awestruck expression on his face.

“You—I—what—”

“Oh, look,” Aziraphale says, smiling like the perfectly innocent angel he is. “Your hiccups are gone.”


	47. Ticket to Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: public transport.

Crowley is a not a big fan of meeting on buses, but he’ll do what he has to do not to blow their cover. If you choose the right bus at the right time of day, it’ll be crowded enough that neither Heaven nor Hell will notice something is amiss if Aziraphale and him are suddenly too close - say, close enough to talk about the incoming end of the world and how to prevent it.

His mistake was letting the angel choose, as he realises as soon as he gets on the bus. This isn’t ‘crowded enough’, this is so crowded he can barely breathe. He makes his way through the bus sticking his pointy shoulders into anyone who gets in his way, and soon enough he’s standing in front of Aziraphale.

“Bit much, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Crowley. There you are.” Aziraphale smiles like the sun itself and Satan fucking damn it Crowley has already forgiven him.

“Listen, about the boy…”

They mutter closely for a while, even as the humans around them give them weird looks - until the bus brakes suddenly and almost sends Crowley landing on his scrawny ass. Almost. It’s a good thing he doesn’t, because that same abrupt stop pushes Aziraphale forward and Crowley, without thinking, catches him.

For a moment, he stands there gaping like a fish, his arms around the angel, Aziraphale’s soft curls tickling his nose. They’ve never been so close.

“Oh my—terribly sorry, my dear, I lost my balance there—”

“Nnnppph,” Crowley says as Aziraphale steps back and smooths down his jacket. “I mean, no problem. What was I saying?”

“About the birthday.”

“Right, yes.”

The conversation resumes, but it’s only a few minutes later that the bus brakes violently again. This time, Aziraphale had just turned around to look at Trafalgar Square out the window, and Crowley instinctively reaches out to stop him from falling. Except that the floor jerks under his feet a second time and, instead of steadying Aziraphale by putting his hands on his shoulders, Crowley stumbles forward and ends up getting two handfuls of angel’s arse.

In a panic, he looks up and immediately makes eye contact with an old lady that’s glaring at him. He takes back his hands as if they’re on fire.

“I didn’t—the bus—I tripped, I wasn’t—”

“That’s quite alright, Crowley.” Aziraphale is keeping his gaze glued to the ground, a faint blush on his cheeks. Crowley shoves his hands as far down into his pockets as they will go and hopes his belt holds up. The last thing he needs right now is to end up showing his bare buttocks to the whole crowd. He scrambles for something to say.

“I-I was saying, uh, I’m going to try and bring out the Antichrist’s demonic nature by teaching him about trigonometry. If that doesn’t do the trick, I don’t know what will.”

Aziraphale nods absently. “I’ll have to think of something to balance that out, then.”

They continue chatting and things seem normal again, for a while. That is, until Crowley relaxes, thinking the worst of it has passed, and the bus jolts to a stop, car horns going off all around it.

This time, there’s no saving it. Crowley tumbles to the floor, and is surprised to find the floor is very soft. A bit too soft, maybe. Soft and smelling of Marseille soap and old paper and groaning in pain and - oh shit, he’s landed on Aziraphale, hasn’t he?

It takes him a moment to figure out he’s lodged himself between the angel’s thighs, crotch to crotch, their ankles tangled together so that it’s really hard to get unstuck.

“That’s it, I’m getting off,” he barks in the driver’s direction, then realises the more he squirms the more he’s rubbing against Aziraphale, and oh Satan and God and all the archangels, did he just say he’s ‘getting off’? “ _From this Satan-forsaken bus!_ ”

Somehow, he regains his feet and offers a hand to help Aziraphale. Once the angel is also back up, Crowley starts wriggling out of the hellish contraption towards the nearest exit. He needs a strong drink and, possibly, a long afternoon of replaying in his mind again and again this terrible, wonderful bus ride. “Talk soon, angel. Bye.”

“Goodbye Crowley. I’ll phone you later!”

🚌

Aziraphale sits down and waits for the bus to reach its last stop. Once it does and everyone is gone, he slowly walks up to the driver and hands him two hundred pounds.

“I just want to make sure you know this is not bribery, dear boy.” Aziraphale wrings his hands, quickly glancing over his shoulder to check no one’s around to hear him. “Consider it a gift, please and thank you.”

The rugged driver stuffs the bills in the pocket of his jacket and shrugs. “Whatever you say, mate.”


	48. Love in the IKEA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: IKEA.

“And this would be…” Aziraphale hesitates as they stand together in front of four big, bold, yellow letters fixed on a cyan-blue wall. “Your magnum opus?”

Crowley grins, undeterred by the angel’s doubtful tone. “You have no idea.” He nods towards the entrance of the IKEA. “Come on, let me show you.”

Aziraphale walks in cautiously, expecting something horrible to jump at him, but actually…

“Oh,” he says, stopping to touch a little green statuette in the shape of a cactus. He looks around and sees families with children, couples, parents with their adult kids walking around. Every corner has been decorated with great care and attention. “This is really quite nice.”

“Leave the Själsligt alone and come here.” Crowley gestures for him to step closer and Aziraphale does, wondering what in the word a ‘ _hell-slit’_ even is and why he should leave it alone. “Look closely. Do you see that couple, hmm?”

Crowley points towards two young women who are currently testing couches by sitting on them and standing up repeatedly. “It’s rude to point, Crowley. Yes, I see them.”

“Good. I can assure you they’re going to walk out of here stressed, angry, and fight all the drive home. What’s better, they’ll come back next week, and the week after that, and the week after that.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gives him a light swat on the arm as he quietly slips a blessing in the direction of the couple. “That is just evil.”

“Demon.” Crowley shrugs. “S’what I do. Oh, and look over there!”

Aziraphale turns and sees a man so deeply sunk in an armchair it looks as if the piece of furniture is trying to swallow him. Three young children are running around him in circles, laughing and yelling. The man has his eyes closed and his head in his hands.

“What is happening?”

“Dunno, but I bet the kids are high on sugar from the milkshakes they got at the bistro, not to mention all the bright lights, noises and colours. And watch that!” Aziraphale spots immediately the teenager pulling their mother’s arm and demanding a most weirdly shaped mirror. “That’s about to turn into a month-long tantrum.”

“Oh, enough of this. You might have worked hard this time, Crowley, I’ll admit as much. But I can feel the love in here. It’s everywhere, even if I can’t figure out where exactly it’s coming from.” Aziraphale scoffs and takes Crowley’s arm at the elbow. “Come with me, and if I can’t find it within the next hour, dinner is on me.”

Crowley makes a complicated sound and his arm is stiff under Aziraphale’s fingers, but he comes along nonetheless.

They’re making their way through the living room section when Aziraphale gasps.

“Oh! Look at that…” He reaches out to run his hand along the edge of an armchair. “Doesn’t this look like a very cheap, but perfect reproduction of the chair I have in my bedroom?”

Crowley chokes on his own spit. “What would I know about chairs you have in your bedroom? No, that’s just a Strandmon in Järstad brown, see? Says so on the tag.”

Aziraphale has no idea what a ‘salmon Winchester’ is supposed to be, but now he’s feeling a bit peckish.

Just as well, they’re coming around the part of the store dedicated to kitchens.

Aziraphale immediately locates some biscuits. “What?” He asks Crowley who’s giving him a weird look as he opens the packet to have a snack. “I’ll pay for these, obviously!”

“Unless you forget, like you did last time.”

“Honest mistake, no use thinking about it any longer.” Aziraphale makes a pleased noise as the sugar and spices melt on his tongue. He pulls out another biscuit and waves it in Crowley’s face until the demon gives up, sighs, and takes it. “Try it. Doesn’t it remind you of those biscuits we had together… where was it? Norway, 1975 or so?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley replies, but he munches on his biscuit, and the tips of his ears are red.

In the workspace section, which Aziraphale thought would be the most boring one, he’s quickly attracted by a small but verdant plant sitting on a desk. He touches its tiny leaves gently.

“Do you know, there was a plant just like this… was it Japan, 17th century? That day you slipped and burst right through a wall, and I laughed so hard I was crying a little by the end of it.”

“Sure, tell the whole shop while you’re at it.” This time it’s Crowley taking him by the elbow and dragging him away.

Strolling through the area dedicated to dining sets and tableware, Aziraphale is captivated by a white and blue plate with a very peculiar pattern. Made by a machine these days, but originally hand-painted by expert hands on ceramic.

“My, so many coincidences today. I’m rather sure they had plates just like this one in Morocco, that time we were sent to Fes, about a thousand years ago. Don’t you remember?”

“Nope, not a thing.” Crowley says, stealing another biscuit and stuffing his mouth with it.

Aziraphale’s hour is up, and as he looks at Crowley picking up a rather sad looking plant to add to his collection, he thinks he might know at last where all the love was coming from.

“So.” He smooths down his jacket and puts away the biscuits in an inside pocket. “I am an angel of my word. Where would you like to have dinner tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got [a podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941477) by my wonderful friend [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)!


	49. Surprise, Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: summoning.

Crowley has planned this out carefully. He’s sent Aziraphale away on a weekend-long book convention that sounds like the most boring event possible, so he has the whole cottage to himself for three entire days.

He’s cleaned up the part of their living room he plans to use, and he just needs a quick trip to London to finish his surprise for the angel.

Not that he’s told Aziraphale he’s preparing a surprise for him. He won’t tell him at all, actually. He can picture it perfectly in his head: the angel will stumble upon it, gasp as he realises it's a gift for him, and then probably turn towards Crowley with a big silly grin on his face. Crowley will, of course, act as if he doesn’t see what the big deal is and tease Aziraphale for being a big old sap. And then enjoy it as the angel snuggles close to him and thanks him for being such a thoughtful companion.

Yes, he’s planned this out wonderfully. What could go wrong?

🥪

When they decided to get a cottage together, it was clear to both of them that Aziraphale was going to keep his bookshop. He’s not living in it these days, and mostly using it as storage for his books, but it’s still an important place to him - to both of them, really. Besides, Crowley’s sure the angel is having a lot of fun opening it to the public on random days of the month, confusing his patrons even further about his opening hours. Crowley has read enough one-star reviews on the bookshop’s Yelp page to know it’s working very well.

(On TripAdvisor, though, all the reviewers say it’s a special shop, and that the fact that it’s so difficult to find it open has actually added to its mysterious charm. After all, TripAdvisor is one of Crowley’s, so it all makes sense.)

The bookshop is dark and silent when Crowley parks in front of it on Saturday evening. The old door opens for him and lets him in without hesitation, and he pats with sincere affection as he steps inside.

Right, so. He needs… the romance novels, definitely. Aziraphale’s third favourite pillow (the other two are already in their cottage). Candles, maybe? The angel must have some somewhere, probably of the kind that smell like cake…

He’s rummaging in the backroom when he hears the front door suddenly swinging open.

“Oh, hello dear. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Is that… is that Aziraphale? And is he… talking to his bookshop?

“It will only be a moment, I’ll be gone in a jiffy.”

Crowley grunts before remembering he’s supposed to be preparing a surprise, and therefore it’d be wise not to be found out.

He plasters himself against the bookshelves and waits.

There are some shuffling noises - Crowley is willing to bet Aziraphale is slipping out of his jacket, hanging it, and taking a quick look around, checking that nobody’s in there. He supposes the angel has spent one too many years terrified Gabriel was going to pop up behind a corner out of the blue.

Fortunately, Aziraphale doesn’t check the backroom properly, he just glances quickly in its direction before going to stand in the middle of the shop. Once he's there he lets out a long, relieved sigh, which has no business sounding as sexual as it does. For lack of anything better to do, Crowley glares at a random Dickens right in front of him and refuses to think inappropriate thoughts.

“I’ve been waiting so long for this,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley is equal parts intrigued and annoyed. What the Heaven was he waiting for that he can’t do in their new home?!

The noises continue. Now it sounds like Aziraphale is moving furniture around, until suddenly there’s a distinct _thud_ that makes Crowley think the angel has dropped down to his knees. Aziraphale has done that quite a few times in their bedroom, so Crowley knows exactly what it sounds like. He also knows exactly what follows, which generally involves Aziraphale peeling Crowley’s jeans off of him and mercilessly blowing him until his brain has melted out of his ears, manicured hands on his skinny buttocks encouraging him to press into the soft, wet heat of his mouth.

This time, Crowley glares down at his dick, since it’s decided to take a sudden interest in the proceedings. He’d like to remind his prick that the famous experiment was about Pavlov’s dog, not Pavlov’s _dick_ , but this isn’t the right time to start arguing with random parts of his anatomy.

It _really_ doesn’t help when Aziraphale starts grunting and moaning. Crowley can’t quite hear what he’s mumbling, but he finds himself frozen in place, listening in on his angel’s noises like a creepy stalker. Now that he thinks about it, this is a little creepy, isn't it? It started out with the most innocent intentions, but… well, if Aziraphale is really jerking off in the middle of the bookshop, which he seems to be doing, Crowley should let him know he’s there, shouldn’t he?

Crowley doesn’t realise the minutes are trickling by while he struggles to get enough blood back up to his brain and think about the matter clearly. The image of Aziraphale kneeling in the middle of the dark, empty bookshop, furiously fisting his cock, is a bit too entrancing. Maybe the angel just felt like having a private jerk-off session in here, for old times’ sake. Maybe he’s even thinking about Crowley while he does...

Crowley realises suddenly he’s not breathing at all, just in case he misses his own name uttered by the angel in the throes of passion.

And then he finally decides that, yes, he should absolutely come out and say he’s there, no matter how embarrassing it is. Listening in like this is just disturbing.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, and is about to take the first step forward when he hears Aziraphale give a little happy cry.

“Oh, yes! _Finally_ ,” the angel sighs, followed by the most obscene moan Crowley’s ever heard - and also, it sounds like Aziraphale’s mouth is… full?

Crowley walks out, a deep frown on his face, and sees Aziraphale. Aziraphale sees him, freezes, and stares back at him.

Crowley finds the angel is indeed on the floor, sitting back on his haunches, in the middle of a sigil drawn in white chalk, a sandwich in his hands and crumbs on his knees.

Neither of them say anything for a long, pregnant moment.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale finally asks.

“Preparing a surprise for you! What are _you_ doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the nerd convention? And what the Heaven are you eating?”

“Oh, uh… remember that time I went to Hell?”

Crowley stares at him, unimpressed. Yes, of course he remembers, it was one of the most important moments in his entire existence. “Well?”

“Well, I… there’s this little place, in Hell, just outside the offices, before the pools of lava, and I—”

“I can’t believe you. You stopped for a snack on the way back?!”

“I was stressed and hungry! It was a momentous day. Oh, I knew you’d be upset.”

Crowley runs a hand down his face and tries to let it sink in that his angel just summoned himself _a sandwich from Hell_.

“Yeah, no, I get it, I stopped there often too. Might be the one thing about Hell I miss.”

Aziraphale’s face does some complicated gymnastics - surprised, sad, thoughtful, determined - before he offers Crowley his sandwich.

And that’s how Crowley knows he loves him.

🥪

“What was the surprise, anyway?” Aziraphale asks the next day as he gets out of the car. He’s insisted on going back to the hotel and following the final day of the convention so, at least, Crowley’s had time to finish setting up Aziraphale’s surprise: a new reading nook. With plenty of natural light, soft pillows, a few candles, and a shelf to hold all his books. Crowley snaps his fingers to make sure Aziraphale’s apple cinnamon tea is just at the right temperature as he closes the door of the Bentley.

He shrugs. “Why don’t you go in and find out?”

He sees Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle as he rushes inside, and smiles.


	50. Passenger Seat Driver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was no prompt this week, but this is my 50TH (!!!) crack minific, so I just had to write something anyway to celebrate 🎉  
> This series started out as a fun game to play with my friends, just a place to throw all the wacky shit I could never fit in regular fics, but y'all made it so much fun with all your comments and related works and enthusiasm and "Cham, what the fuck am I reading right now"s, so thank you, thank you, thank you. 🥺💖💖💖
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend [Mackaley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley), not just because I love her (though I do!) but also because she let me use her idea of Crowley giving Aziraphale (in his silly gloves) **driving lessons** 🤗

London is looking a lot better these days.

The ashes of the war left behind, the city is slowly being rebuilt, hemlines are getting shorter, and rock’n’roll has just landed from across the ocean. All in all, Crowley thinks it’s a good time to be a demon on Earth.

He hasn’t seen Aziraphale since the night he saved his books, though, so he’s quite surprised when a silvery tinkle signals the angel is materialising in his speeding car.

“What?” Crowley says, keeping his eyes on the road. They’re on good terms now, Aziraphale was particularly gooey and wide-eyed when he dropped him off at the bookshop after they left the destroyed church, but it just wouldn’t do to appear too _nice_.

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses. “You never taught me how to drive this thing.”

Crowley brakes so hard the car behind them almost rams right into them. “ _What?!_ ”

“I think you should teach me. It sounds like it could be fun - not to mention safer. You drive like the devil. No offense.”

Crowley decides, in that moment, that he will pretend he doesn’t see right through this paper-thin excuse to spend some time together. He will never admit it out loud, but after their fight he's missed the angel too.

Then his eyes drop to the angel’s lap and he sees Aziraphale is wearing _tartan driving gloves_ , and he groans so loudly he almost drowns out the honking of the cars around them.

“Please?” Aziraphale asks, batting his eyelashes, and Crowley knows in that moment that he's going to say yes. He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a frustrated hiss before he lets go of his death grip on the steering wheel.

“Fine. But we’ll start slow. How about you take care of the gear stick for now?” Crowley draws in the air an 'H' of fire, with an extra leg and an extra arm. Aziraphale blinks, staring at it while Crowley points. “That’s reverse, first, third, fifth, second and fourth. Got it? I call the gear, you move the stick. S’not rocket science.”

“I… I suppose.” Aziraphale gingerly puts his hand on the gear stick, gloved fingers closing slowly around the knob and holding it tightly. Crowley swallows and tries, uselessly, not to think impure thoughts. Aziraphale leans forward to talk to the dashboard. “You, behave now.”

“Are you scolding my car? You coddle every plant I’ve ever had, but you scold the car?”

“Plants don’t run 90 miles per hour in central London, Crowley.”

“Sure they do, if you throw them hard enough.” Aziraphale glares at him. “Right, let’s start. First.”

Aziraphale quickly moves the gear stick and, much to Crowley’s surprise, gets it right on the first try. The car starts, and they begin driving it without a hitch, Crowley taking care of the steering wheel and pedals while Aziraphale focuses on the gear stick.

“Second. Back to first. Alright, second. Third. And fourth,” Crowley grins as the car speeds up. “Now it starts getting interesting. Fifth! Ah, shit—go to neutral and down to third, quick. Second. First again. Terrible drivers, the whole lot of ‘em.”

Thirty minutes go by and Crowley doesn’t even notice. This is much more fun than he’d ever thought it’d be. Somehow, they move in perfect synch, and Crowley even avoids going too fast as to not spook the angel. He stops the car when they get to a smaller, quieter street with tiny brick houses.

“I should teach you how to parallel park now,” Crowley says with conviction, as if he knows anything about teaching angels how to drive.

“You know how to park? You always leave the car on the pavement, I thought—”

“ _Obviously_ I know how to park, I just choose not to do it. Now watch and pay attention.” Unthinkingly, he turns around and puts his hand behind the passenger seat’s headrest, so that he's able to look behind them. “You should…”

He forgets what he was about to say when his gaze drops to Aziraphale’s mouth, just in time to see him wetting his lips. He makes a small, hurt noise that comes from somewhere low in his throat and then the angel is leaning forward and laying a gentle, slow kiss on the corner of his lips. Crowley feels his face burn and his knees turn to jelly.

“I apologise. I... lost my balance,” Aziraphale says, his cheeks flushed in a way that makes Crowley want to take his face in his hands and kiss him over and over, ridiculous tartan gloves or not. But he doesn’t get the chance to do that, because he forgets to press down properly on the clutch and the Bentley suddenly jerks forward, bumping immediately into another car.

“Oh, for Somebody’s sake!” Crowley gets out in a rush, furiously snapping his fingers left and right to fix all the damages. Which also gives him a chance to turn his back on Aziraphale for a moment and mutter ' _sweet merciful Satan, did he just kiss me?'_ to the air. Then, of course, he pretends to have some dignity as he clears his throat and gets back into the car. “Right, enough driving for today. Do it again next Saturday?”

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale wiggles in his seat, keeping his gaze on the road ahead, and smiles. “I’ve decided I’d rather you drive, after all.”


	51. Portab-hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Inappropriate Christmas Gifts.

Aziraphale isn’t sure why Crowley got him a… pocket mirror? For Christmas. The two of them don’t even celebrate Christmas.

But Crowley is on the other side of the planet, on some mission Hell sent him on, so Aziraphale clutches the small object, free to smile fondly like he never would if Crowley was around to see it - too dangerous, you understand.

He flicks the thing open and is very surprised to find that the top mirror is actually a… hole? He looks behind it, but there’s nothing there. It has to be some distortion of space and time that Crowley made specifically for him. Unsure what to do, Aziraphale pokes it with a finger, trying to figure out what lies on the other side.

What lies on the other side, apparently, is a forked tongue that flicks against his fingertip and makes him jerk his entire hand back. Very faintly, he hears a snort that can’t be but Crowley’s from the other side.

“Very funny, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolds the not-mirror, trying to ignore how his cheeks are on fire right now.

Well. He won’t pretend he’s never thought about how that tongue would feel against his skin. Maybe wrapped around a finger, or licking the delicate flesh between index and thumb. He swallows, decides he must have gone a little crazy, and pushes the finger back in. Time seems to slow down as he waits to find out how Crowley will react - whether he’ll get the hint, whether he’ll figure out he might have accidentally found the only safe way for them to do… this. Whatever _this_ is.

He lets out a little undignified yelp when warm lips wrap around his fingertip, when a wet, smooth tongue licks along the underside of his finger. He slowly sits down on his sofa, his knees turned to jelly. Crowley’s mouth takes his entire finger and sucks, and Aziraphale clings to his own thigh and squeezes tightly. He’s instantaneously hard in his pants, and not half ashamed about it as he should be.

“Crowley…” He gives the demon another finger and makes a helplessly aroused noise when Crowley starts playing with it immediately, deviously long tongue wrapping around both digits. Aziraphale experiments with pressing down, sliding out, touching his fingertips to Crowley’s wet bottom lip, sinking back inside, and there really is no way at all to avoid thinking about how his cock would feel inside that devilish mouth.

Crowley’s sounds come to him muffled, but they get there all the same, little moans and groans, and at one point Aziraphale clearly hears the purr of a zipper being pulled open. Picturing Crowley touching himself is too much, Aziraphale can’t keep his free hand on his thigh anymore. With a shaking hand he open his trousers and old-fashioned underwear and takes himself in hand, harder than he’s ever been.

Does he dare? Can he even…? Slowly, he pulls his fingers away from the hole and takes a steadying breath. It’d be so easy to replace his fingers… but can he? And how can he even ask if that’d be okay with Crowley?

Crowley, as he always does, solves the problem for him. On the other side, he presses close, tongue poking through the—well, no use lying to himself about it—through the metaphysical glory hole they’re playing with. Aziraphale has spent his time in certain types of clubs, he knows a glory hole when he sees one. He also knows he’s possibly never seen something as erotic as that mouth stretched open, waiting for him through that ridiculously thin veil of plausible deniability.

Aziraphale turns around, puts a pillow down and sets the hole over it. So he can—so he can fuck into it, there’s no way to word it more politely. He’s about to fuck Crowley’s mouth in the most improbable, ridiculous possible way, and if he thinks too hard about it he’ll lose his mind a little. So he doesn’t. On his hands and knees over the couch, he lowers his hips until he’s slowly sinking into the scorching heat of Crowley’s welcoming mouth.

He hears himself cursing aloud, he imagines Crowley can hear him too, but he’s too far gone to care about being impolite. This is the best thing he’s ever felt, and there’s no holding himself back at this point. He can’t grip Crowley’s hair or caress his jaw, he can’t look down on him in adoration or cup his cheek and run a thumb against the obscene stretch of his mouth - he never thought their first time would be like this, but he finds himself suddenly not caring at all.

Time becomes liquid and Aziraphale loses himself in the moment, still half-dressed as he pulls in and out, in and out, slow and gentle and then fast, harder, harder, harder—

He hears the slapping of skin against skin and realises Crowley must be jerking himself off, and that’s what does him in. He tumbles off the edge without a word of warning for his demon, a surprised cry escaping his lips as he comes so hard he sees stars, filling Crowley’s mouth in long, hot spurts, until he’s all done and falls forward, wheezing into his own elbow. He can feel a little bit of his come leaking out the corner of Crowley’s lips and his cock gives a spent twitch at that mental image.

Good lord. What has he done?

🕳️

He works himself in a panic over the next few hours. That was… awful of him, wasn’t it? Or did he do exactly what Crowley wanted him to do? Surely Crowley seemed eager for it, but then they had not discussed this at all, and… oh dear. Oh no, they really should’ve talked before doing this.

Eventually, Aziraphale decides he should apologise. After a quick trip to the florist, he sits in front of the mirror and sighs. Here goes nothing.

He pushes through a bright marigold flower, for ‘grief’, and a white stem of lily of-the-valley, for ‘purity of love’. Hopefully that conveys how sorry he is. A fern for ‘humility’ and a red columbine flower for ‘anxiety’: please accept my apology, I’m worried. Finally, a perfect pink camelia in full bloom: ‘longing for you’.

Crowley’s reply only takes about half an hour.

A small arborvitae branch for ‘unchanging friendship’ that makes Aziraphale breathe a sigh of relief. Then a little bundle of bay leaves and chives: Aziraphale slowly translates them in his head as ‘glory’ and ‘usefulness’ and chuckles to himself, that sure is a good botanical attempt at ‘glory hole’ if he’s ever seen one. Finally, Crowley pushes through a little bunch of sweet basil, ‘good wishes’. It is Christmas, after all.

Aziraphale knows Crowley well enough to know that most of his choices being herbs he can use in the kitchen is not a coincidence. The cheeky devil. He smiles as he caresses a soft basil leaf. Well. He’ll have to think of something very nice to gift him back, won’t he?


	52. The Fine Print

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: zombies.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley says, sliding on the sofa next to Aziraphale and depositing a large bowl of popcorn in his lap. “You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “You do realise you can’t promise something like that, don’t you?”

“Yes I can.” Crowley steals a fistful of popcorn. “I just did.” He grabs the remote and pushes play on his favourite zombie movie, trying not to look as excited as he feels about watching it with Aziraphale.

It’s about half an hour later when Crowley realises the angel is, actually, not having any fun at all. He muttered something about how apocalyptic movies have to be the humans’ way of processing their deepest fears and hasn’t uttered a word since. He has his arms crossed over his chest, he’s barely touched the popcorn, and he’s glaring at the screen. Crowley knows that glare very well, it’s the one Aziraphale reserves to humans who so much as _think_ about coming into his bookshop with their small children or pets.

It’s not a good look, is the point.

“That’s not the right attitude, you know?” Crowley slinks off the sofa and circumnavigates it, ending up behind Aziraphale just as, on screen, zombies scratch against a window, calling for the main characters’ attention. Crowley presses his fingertips into the angel’s shoulders and kneads. “Try to relax, alright?”

“This film makes no sense,” Aziraphale complains. “It relies on the characters being dim and not communicating at all to work.”

Crowley stares deadpan at the back of his head. “Does it now.”

“Yes.” The angel sighs. “I did tell you, you can’t promise I’ll have fun.”

“And I did tell you that I _can_.” Crowley leans over to breathe against the nape of his neck. He’s just not ready to concede, at least not until he’s given it a good try. “Give it a minute,” he mutters as presses his lips to that one soft, sensitive spot behind Aziraphale’s left ear that he’s come to know very well lately.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breaths out, voice lower, thicker already.

“Hmm,” Crowley grins against his neck and begins to suck, and doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s grip on the popcorn bowl tightens. “Special little spot this one, isn’t it?”

He keeps at it, enjoying Aziraphale’s low sounds of pleasure, until he sees some of the tension has drained from the angel’s shoulders. Then he circles the sofa again and sits on the armrest, detaching one of Aziraphale’s hands from the bowl so he can bring it to his mouth. “Here’s another one.” He sinks his teeth lightly on the side of the angel’s wrist, just below his thumb, and Aziraphale lets out a delighted, shaky exhale.

“Oh, you beast…”

On screen, there is a terrifying car ride among the zombies, but neither of them is paying any attention to it by now.

Crowley lets go of Aziraphale’s wrist to go kneel between his feet. Eyes fixed on the angel’s face, he drags up the leg of his trousers until he’s bared one of Aziraphale’s knee. “And another,” he murmurs, pressing his thumb into the pressure point between the angel’s calf and the swell of his thigh. Aziraphale opens his legs wider on a gasp.

Crowley massages the soft flesh slowly, and can’t quite resist licking his lips when a quick look between the angel’s thighs confirms Aziraphale is enjoying himself as well. Soon enough, anyway, Aziraphale is leaning forward and grabbing him by the shirt with both hands. “Oh, come here, you infuriating, stubborn thing.”

🧟

They realise the movie has ended just because the screen is black and _You’re My Best Friend_ by Queen is playing over the closing credits.

Crowley blinks himself awake; he must have fallen asleep for a few minutes there. He looks down at himself, at the pirate shirt that’s been brutally tugged out of his striped red and black trousers, and then touches the eyepatch crooked across his forehead. Aziraphale, his gown wrinkled and bunched up around his hips, has the decency to blush.

Crowley grins. Yeah, they had fun, though how Aziraphale decided he was in the mood to be ravaged by a pirate while watching a zombie movie is beyond him. Though that gives him an idea—

“We should watch Pirates of the Caribbean next.” Zombies _and_ pirates. Brilliant. “It’ll be fun.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Didn’t you have fun?” Crowley tugs at the lace decorating the angel’s neck and purses his lips a bit. “Just like I promised?”

“That’s—” Aziraphale yelps as Crowley grinds his hips against him. “Ah, bugger it. That’s what I get from making a deal with the devil, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Crowley grins, kissing the pout off the angel’s lips. “Always gotta read the fine print.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone figures out what zombie movie they were watching, lmk! :)


	53. Touch Starved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: revisiting old prompts (board games + pride).

It started, as it often did, with a silly row.

They’d been playing chess and Crowley had won, but Aziraphale insisted he must have moved a pawn out of the way with his elbow to get to his Queen. There was simply no way he’d won this fair and square! The argument had degenerated fast. Not in so many words, Aziraphale had called Crowley a filthy liar, and Crowley had taken great offense at that. For Somebody’s sake, it was the first time he’d won without cheating at all!

The next day, neither of them could explain how they’d got so furious over something so insignificant. Aziraphale, face flushed red, had told Crowley he didn’t want to see him or talk to him for the foreseeable future. Crowley had pointed out that it was a ridiculous idea. Their cottage was too small! It was impossible to avoid bumping into each other constantly. Aziraphale had then threatened not to _touch_ him at all instead, and Crowley had lied through his teeth and said that it was perfectly fine with him - he didn’t want to touch Aziraphale either. Who cares about the angel nuzzling his neck as he falls asleep at night, or scratching that damn spot in the middle of his back he can never reach? Who cares about Aziraphale’s warm hands manhandling him on their bed, or the way the angel’s thigh weighs heavy and comforting over him when they spoon?

Not Crowley, that’s who.

Three weeks later, and they’re still stuck in the most awkward, most tense standstill they’ve ever got themselves in.

Their anger has deflated, but both of them are too proud to apologise first.

Until the day Crowley notices Aziraphale’s bowtie is a little crooked and goes to fix it before even realising what he’s doing.

“You’re touching me,” Aziraphale points out.

“Fuck—m’not.” Crowley gives him one long blink as his brain catches up with his hands. “I’m not touching you. I’m touching your bowtie, it’s different.”

“Oh? Is it now?” Aziraphale purses his lips and bats his eyelashes, the very picture of innocence, and starts undoing the buttons on Crowley’s shirt.

“ _You’re_ touching _me_!”

“I am not.” The angel says. “I’m touching your shirt.”

Crowley opens his mouth to speak and closes it. Because the angel is technically correct, and because it feels amazing to have Aziraphale’s hands on him. He doesn’t even care that there is fabric in between. Instead of straightening the angel’s bowtie he pulls it loose and leaves it hanging around his neck.

In a matter of minutes, Aziraphale’s cardigan, trousers and belt hit the floor with a soft thud. Crowley would keep going, but he thinks the angel looks much more obscene half-dressed than naked, with his shirt open to show the pale hair of his chest, his tartan socks and underwear still on.

Aziraphale, without hesitation, makes quick work of Crowley’s clothing, sparing nothing at all except the little silver necklace the demon is wearing that day. It has a little tear-shaped black pendant, and Aziraphale presses his finger against it for a moment. Still not touching any skin, but Crowley’s breath hitches in his throat all the same.

“Are you tired?” Aziraphale asks him, and Crowley’s confused for a moment before he notices the way the angel has tilted his head towards their bed and suggestively raised his right eyebrow.

“Ah—yeah. Yes. I’ve been meaning to have a lie-down today. Didn’t get around to it yet.”

“Oh, I think you should.”

It’s very easy to follow that advice. Crowley lies on their bed and Aziraphale joins him. They stare at each other for a minute or an hour, the charged silence between them louder than any argument. Then Aziraphale extends his hand and, without ever making contact, traces the contour of Crowley’s long arm, a few inches over the skin. Crowley shivers all the same.

“Goosebumps,” the angel says. “My poor dear, are you cold? Do you want to come closer?”

Crowley nods and carefully moves as close as he can get without touching any skin. It’s complicated, and much more so because, as he soon realises, he has to avoid poking Aziraphale’s thigh with the desperate boner he’s now sporting. He puts a hand on the angel’s waist, over the shirt, and licks his exceptionally dry lips as he wonders where this is going.

“You can get closer,” Aziraphale tells him, his voice a low, inviting purr, and Crowley does. He presses forward until the tip of his cock is brushing against the angel’s underwear, a glossy dark spot spreading across the fabric where he touches. But Aziraphale is hard too, underneath that insubstantial layer of cloth, and that spurs Crowley on.

“Angel…” Crowley’s pretty sure it should be impossible for that barely-there friction to feel so good, but it’s been weeks since Aziraphale last touched him, and maybe he hadn’t realised just how addicted to it he’s got.

“Careful now,” Aziraphale says as he nudges his hips forward, the length of Crowley’s cock sliding against his own, only the thin layer of stretchy tartan fabric keeping them apart.

“ _Angel_.” Crowley grips his waist, struggling to get a hold of himself, but his body is not listening to his brain at all. He keeps rubbing himself against Aziraphale like some sort of rabid animal – and, what’s worse, the angel is encouraging him to continue. “Oh—fuck. Oh, _fuck_.”

“Crowley…” The way Aziraphale moans his name as his eyes flutter closed short-circuits something in Crowley’s mind. He can’t stop himself any longer, rutting against the angel as Aziraphale does the same. It’s a few minutes of tiny, furious movement until they both come. The angel spills inside his own underwear, with a polite little ‘ _oh’,_ while Crowley makes a mess on himself, on the angel’s stomach, on the bed underneath.

“You lost.” Aziraphale says, still panting from his orgasm, as he presses a finger into the spill of semen around his navel. “I think this counts as touching me.”

Crowley is on him in a blink, straddling his hips as he snaps away the last of Aziraphale’s clothing, and the angel looks nothing but delighted by this turn of events.

“Oh, I’ll show you what counts as touching you.”


	54. Seeing Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Good Omens in Space.

“Among the stars?”

“Yeah.” Crowley shrugged. “Might be nice, I thought. Now that the entire ordeal with the Antichrist is over, well, we can go wherever we want, can’t we?”

Aziraphale, who was sitting down on his sofa, looked down at his knees. “What about our corporations? Surely they wouldn’t hold up—”

“No, yeah, course. We can leave them here.” Crowley’s eyes scanned the space from left to right. “You’ve done something, haven’t you? Warded the bookshop.”

“Against angelic and demonic influences, yes. After everything that happened.”

“With some exceptions.” The left corner of Crowley’s lips curled upwards. Only a hint of a smirk, but oh - it made him look absolutely lovely, and Aziraphale’s old heart skipped a bit in his chest. He couldn’t help the fond smile that spread on his face.

“Yes, of course.”

“So they’d be safe, right?”

“Yes, they—oh, alright.” Aziraphale wiggled in his seat. “It could be fun.”

“It _will_ be fun.” Crowley sat down next to him. “Right, so. Release when you’re ready, I’ll catch you.”

There was a surprised intake of breath before Aziraphale turned away, a pink blush high on his cheeks. He forced himself to nod, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, he didn’t have a body anymore. Oh. _Oooh_. His neck had been torturing him for _days_ and he’d been too stubborn to fix it, insisting if humans could handle it, then so could he. But now? Now he was nothing but a mass of warm, swirling energy, no dinner weighing down his stomach, no shoes tight around his feet. Just blissful, absolute freedom.

And then a soft, tinkling sound. Amusement. Crowley. Crowley, who’d also let go of his body and was floating shapelessly in the bookshop, was looking at him. He was laughing, actually, because Aziraphale had relaxed too much and his energy was drifting all over the place. Quickly, he focused and gathered it tight around his core.

Crowley came closer. He extended himself towards Aziraphale, as if offering him his hand to take. _Oh_. It was so easy to say yes. Aziraphale pushed forward - or slipped, he wasn’t even sure - and Crowley caught him. Aziraphale allowed himself bask in the feeling of being held for a long moment.

Then Crowley was carrying him upwards, through the roof, past the atmosphere, past the slowly spinning planets. It was a feeling not unlike sitting in the Bentley with him. Crowley was fast, and he cursed at an asteroid or two on his way up, and yet Aziraphale trusted him to carry them to their destination safely.

And if Aziraphale pushed against the edges of Crowley, if he intermingled their energies a little - well. It was just the excitement, and the speed, and that he had little experience controlling this form of his.

Their date - no, not a _date_ , just a fun night out together - continued for a minute or a month. They had no frame of reference, lost among the stars. Crowley dared him to taste the sweet, cold atoms along the orbit of Saturn, fast-moving and hard to catch - it reminded him of trying to make a snowflake land on his tongue. At last, Crowley helped him out and Aziraphale couldn’t help but think that it felt as if Crowley was cradling his chin, guiding his lips forward, and if he’d had knees at that point - well, they would have felt liquid.

They danced to the music made by the sound waves between Amalthea and Thebe, although neither of them knew how to dance. It didn’t matter - without bodies, they couldn’t be too clumsy or too close, they were just bright masses of energy fluctuating around each other, against each other, interlacing euphorically in every way. Aziraphale had tried nothing like this before. He was so caught up in it he’d forgotten to feel embarrassed at all.

Until the moment Crowley gently tugged him down to Earth - it was time to go.

Back in his body, Aziraphale blinked himself awake to an acute sense of loss. Crowley had been all around him, inside him, his demonic essence making sparks against Aziraphale’s angelic one. Suddenly, he was all alone in his body, heavy and slow.

And then he realised he was draped over Crowley, one of the demon’s legs between his thighs, and gasped as he tried to disentangle himself.

“Oh—I’m so sorry, I don’t know how it happened - maybe when we came back, I wasn’t—”

But Crowley leaped forward, cupping his cheeks in his hands and kissing him. It was glorious, better than all the stars and wonders Aziraphale had seen that day.

Then they tumbled off the sofa and he bonked his head.


	55. Spa Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: prayers.

Crowley heard somewhere that there’s a connection between somebody’s kinks and their traumas. He’s not sure whether that’s correct. He’s heard many things in his long, long existence, and many of those were wrong. When Hippocrates’s theory of the four humours turned out to be bollocks, for example, he was quite bummed.

Point being, he has some unusual _habits_ himself. Which may or may not relate to some trauma he’s experienced in his past. He really doesn’t want to look at it too closely. It’s not hurting anyone, nobody knows about it, and he’s being doing this discreetly for millennia. He sees no reason to stop.

The ritual begins with a wine-red velvet pillow, which he puts on the cold marble floor next to his bed. He kneels on it, elbows over the mattress, and gathers his hands in prayer.

“Principality Aziraphale, angel of Heaven,” he begins. “Please _don’t_ hear my prayer.”

He’s already hard in his jeans. He’s been hard for a very long time, since the moment he woke up and remembered all the details about the day before.

“I am praying to you because I have been led to sin. Me, a demon, has been led to sin, yes. Yesterday, my best friend invited me to go to… a _spa_ day,” he says, putting as much contempt in the word _spa_ as he can manage. “And I agreed. Like an idiot.”

Crowley presses his lips against his joined hands. “It went well for a while. It wasn’t any fun, but I got a massage - from a professional, is what I mean. T’was nice, t’was alright. We sat side by side in the sauna, ate grapes and chatted. A normal afternoon - lots of bare skin, but I know how to behave myself. Afterwards, I wanted to ask him if he fancied having dinner someplace nice, so I snapped myself dry and clothed. I forgot that’s not the way he does things. I honestly forgot.”

He bites lightly on his thumbs as he closes his eyes. “What I saw…” He was planning to drag this out, but as he reaches the point of the memory that put him in such a state, he loses his patience. With quick, clumsy fingers, he unzips his jeans, finally taking himself in hand and sighing in relief.

It’s hard to talk, it really is. But he loves it just like this. He enjoys forcing himself to focus, enjoys hearing his own voice speaking to an imaginary Aziraphale. He loves fantasising that the angel is listening most of all - he can picture him clear as day, cheeks flushed, uncomfortable erection trapped inside the old cashmere trousers. “I walked into the changing room and there he was, completely naked. He must have just showered, because— _aah, fuck_ —he was _dripping_ wet.”

He jerks himself off hard and fast, daring himself not to finish before he’s done talking. “His… his towel or something, it was on the floor, and he’d bent over to get it, and I saw… I saw _so much_.” He gives himself a tight squeeze. “His entire, blessed arse exposed. I swear to Satan, if he’d asked, if he’d just asked, I would have eaten him out right there and then, wouldn’t have needed to be told twice. Fuck, I would’ve stopped time for it. For him. I would have.”

For a moment, he floats in the pleasure-pain of not letting himself finish, torturing himself with the mental image of Aziraphale’s soft thighs, his full pink buttocks, the barely visible, vulnerable curve of his balls, all dripping wet and pink from the heat.

“Wish he were here right now, bent over on this bed—I would be on my knees for him, whisper my prayers right between his— _gaaaah_.”

He comes ungracefully onto his fingers, dripping all over his precious pillow.

He drags himself up onto the bed, wiping away the evidence of his pleasure with a quick miracle before curling under the covers, very satisfied with his blasphemous prayer.

“Amen,” he says just before falling asleep with a devilish grin on his face.

🙏🏻

In a bookshop in Soho, an angel has been sitting in a bathtub under a steady stream of icy water for hours and hours.

Well, fine, the water is lukewarm, and it’s been ten minutes tops, but it’s the thought that matters. Either way, judging by the state of his untouched, raging erection, ten minutes in lukewarm water haven’t helped much.

“I should definitely tell him, it’s been such a long time,” he says to the empty bathroom, before sighing as he turns off the cold tap. Aziraphale lets the warm water fill the tub instead and wraps his fingers around his cock with a quiet moan. “Next time, yes. Definitely. Next time.”


	56. Oh No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: reports

Crowley knew Aziraphale was home, though he couldn’t see him. There was a supernatural warmth to the bookshop and the surrounding area when the angel was around. And also a vaguely menacing feeling that gently whispered to the humans ‘ _don’t touch my books, goodbye and thank you’_.

“Angel? You in here?” Crowley waited by the door, sure that Aziraphale would pop us soon to greet him. In the meantime, he purveyed the mess over the angel’s desk. There were envelopes upon envelopes of unopened mail. All with Heaven’s golden stamp over them.

“Oh, hello.” Aziraphale shuffled to the front door, his silly little glasses perched on the tip of his perfect nose. “Cup of tea?”

“Sure. Hey - is that all from upstairs? Have you checked what they want?”

Aziraphale looked at the desk and flinched. With the face of someone who’s swallowed half a lemon whole, he took a step back and dropped his shoulders. “I haven’t. I suppose it’s—it can get quite overwhelming, you know. I procrastinated for a few days and suddenly there are dozens of them, sitting there, waiting for me. It’s really rather uncomfortable.”

“Uh.” Crowley touched the closest envelope, feeling the sting of angelic power against his fingertips. “Want me to do it for you?”

“Oh, would you? I couldn’t possibly ask you to,” Aziraphale replied, already walking back towards the kitchenette to put on some tea.

Crowley smiled when the angel couldn’t see him and went through the mail. Most of it was spam. Some were ‘reminders’ from Heaven (for example, ‘ _remember an angel shouldn’t have two desserts with every meal’_ , which Crowley thought was utter bullocks). One was a request for a report.

“Aziraphale! You have a report due in…” Crowley looked around for a clock before remembering that a) Aziraphale didn’t keep clocks, or if he did other stuff buried them, and b) he had one on his wrist. “Two hours!”

Aziraphale looked very pale as he shuffled back towards him, kettle in hand. “What about?”

“It says…” Crowley looked at the letter, blinked once, and looked at it again. “They are very concerned about the ‘increasing spread of onanism among the human population’ due to ‘a technology called the Internet’ and that they’d like a detailed report on ‘the self-gratification habits of the average human’ and how it works… in detail.”

Aziraphale put down the kettle. He pulled out the whiskey instead. “Will you—”

“Yeah. Course. Grab a few bottles, we’ll finish this before you can say ‘good lord’.”

Aziraphale had trouble keeping himself from chuckling the next day, when Gabriel asked him to pop by his office. Writing a report six sheets to the wind hadn’t been entirely professional, but Crowley had made it so much fun. And, as the demon pointed out, Heaven had no other angels stationed on Earth. They would have no way to ascertain the truthfulness of his claims. It was just a spot of harmless fun.

“Ah, Aziraphale, thank you for stopping by before the workshop.” Gabriel said, showing him a bunch of candles. “Which kind do you think would work out best?”

Aziraphale pointed towards a tall black candle before his brain caught up with the rest of him. “Workshop?”

“As detailed in the letter I sent you this morning. Yes, you’re right, we don’t want to be late.” Gabriel patted him on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince and Aziraphale, as if stuck in a trance, let himself be lead to the conference room. It was devoid of furniture, but full of angels uncertainly taking off their clothes. There was, notably, an abundance of cans of coconut oil and hot pink feathers all over the place.

_Oh no_ , thought Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is a terrible employee.


	57. One with Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: wall slam.

Crowley hadn’t taken residence in the woods outside of Kingsland, Herefordshire, only because Aziraphale was stationed nearby. Or because the deserted woods apparently made the angel feel safe enough that he’d pop by for a quick fuck sometimes. But certainly those had been decisive factors.

The angel liked it rough, he’d learned. And Crowley, well - he respected neither God nor any other authority, he bent to Hell’s orders only insomuch as it benefit him and kept him out of trouble, but a flutter of eyelashes or a slight tremble of Aziraphale’s lips as he asked to be grabbed and shoved against a wall could’ve made him do _anything_.

On one occasion, in a considerable bout of passion or insanity, he hadn’t even allowed the angel in. He’d taken off the angel’s armour with a snap of his fingers and pressed him against the nearest tree, and _oh_ , the noise Aziraphale had made as the cold bark hit his bare back.

Crowley was very busy rubbing his thigh between the angel’s and sucking at the soft skin of his throat when they heard a noise and froze.

“I’m telling you, Uriel, it’s very suspicious that someone _like him_ ,” said Michael’s voice, with as much disdain as could be put in two words. “Would voluntarily walk into the woods without reason. It’s cold, damp and uncomfortable. He must be up to something.”

Crowley’s brain whirred like a sock in a wind tunnel as he desperately tried to find a way out of this nasty predicament.

And then, suddenly, he was a mushroom.

🍄

Michael’s feet missed him by an inch. If Crowley had lungs, he’d have been struggling not to scream.

“Let’s wait here a moment. See if he shows up.” Uriel kicked a stone in their general direction and smirked. “I can feel him close by.”

The two archangels stood right in front of a round, pale brown mushroom and his slightly taller red companion. Fortunately, they did not think to look down.

It took a moment for Crowley to get his bearings. He had no eyes, no ears, and definitely no trace of an erection anymore. He was quite mushy all over, really. But, somehow, he could still perceive the world around him. He had absolutely no clue how that worked.

His… roots? Mushroom-roots. He didn’t know what the correct word was. His mushroom-roots sent signals up to his… brain? Surely mushrooms don’t have brains. Well, anyway, to his _consciousness_ , and that’s how he knew he’d been almost stomped on by Michael’s left foot. That’s how he knew Aziraphale was right beside him, hidden in plain sight.

_‘Proud of yourself, are you?’_ He tried to ask, his tendrils reaching for Aziraphale’s underground.

_‘I panicked_ ,’ Aziraphale replied, entangling his roots with Crowley’s. That slight touch sent a shock of electricity up Crowley’s… stalk. ‘ _You have to admit it is quite brilliant.’_

Crowley didn’t have a tongue to spatter with, so he didn’t. He stayed quiet as he kept rubbing his, uh, _endings_ , with the angel’s. It felt nice. It felt so very nice.

Uriel and Michael were still nearby, towering over them, but they hadn’t spotted them at all.

_‘Oh, Crowley’_ , Aziraphale moaned in Crowley’s head, and Crowley had no clue how he’d done that, but fuck if it wasn’t hot. All of his little mushroom-roots - he really must look up what they’re called later - were crawling towards Aziraphale, intertwining with the angel’s. The little spark of sensation multiplied tenfold and then a hundredfold, intensifying so much Crowley was almost afraid he’d pop his wings out.

Not that he could, as he had no wings at all.

_‘Angel… I did not know you liked to have sex with an audience.’_

_‘Don’t be silly, Crowley. Mushrooms can’t have sex.’_

Crowley wasn’t sure whether that was accurate, but it sounded reasonable enough. ‘ _So what do you call it?’_

_‘Killing time?’_

Crowley would’ve snorted if he could have. ‘ _Sure. Let’s kill some time then_.’

A few inches underneath the moist, soft soil, the tips of their hyphae entangled, thousands of sparks shooting through their mycelia all the way up to their gills. Crowley’s volva trembled, his spores fell all around him and - holy shit, that sure as Satan’s balls was an orgasm coursing through his thin mushroom body.

He could feel Aziraphale quietly shaking by his side and guessed the angel must’ve been going through the same.

When it was over, they kept their filaments entwined a while longer, until finally Uriel and Michael decided it’d been long enough and left.

🍄

Once it was safe to do so, Aziraphale turned them back into their human forms and Crowley found himself sitting on his butt, the angel practically in his lap.

“Sweet unholy f—”

“Don’t be blasphemous now.”

“That was _intense_.”

“Yes, indeed, it was.”

“Can you turn us into other things?”

“…I suppose so, yes.”

“Great.”

Later on, Michael reported they lost track of the angel Aziraphale for three months straight, and when he resurfaced from whatever corner of the Earth he’d been hiding in, he had nothing to say for himself except that he’d ‘become one with nature’ and that he understood the Lord’s creations much, much better now.

Whatever the Hell that meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my mushroom knowledge comes from spending ten minutes on a site called shroomcity dot com. Depiction of mushroom sex might be inaccurate.


	58. Valentine's Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: tokens of love.

It was their first Valentine’s day together, and Crowley was determined to win it. Because Valentine’s day is clearly a competition a person can win.

He’d given it a lot of thought. He’d noticed how Aziraphale had dived into their new sex life with the same attitude he had at a restaurant when, at the end of a meal, he’d pretend to be embarrassed to order three entire desserts. On cue, Crowley would tell him to just get whatever he liked. Aziraphale would then smile and jollily order up to six desserts, if they looked particularly appealing on the menu.

If what Aziraphale needed was permission to indulge himself, well. That was very easy to provide, wasn’t it?

“Darling?” The angel called from the other room. “Is everything alright? You’re usually asleep at this time of—”

Aziraphale turned the corner and gaped. Crowley stretched on their sofa as if he’d just woken up from an innocent nap, and not at all as if he was wearing only a thin pair of black boxer briefs and a thick black leather collar with a leash attached.

“What?” He asked, grabbing the leash and twirling it like a cowboy - missing his right eye by mere millimetres. “Seen something you like?”

“Oh, my.” And there it was, that I’m-going-to-order-six-desserts look in the angel’s eyes. “Is this all for me?”

“Yup.” Crowley pushed the handle of the leash in his direction. “Happy Valentine’s day, angel.”

“Oh. Oh dear.” Aziraphale grabbed the leash as he let his eyes rake all over Crowley’s body, before blinking twice and frowning. “What am I supposed to do, exactly?”

“I, uh, not sure.” Crowley adjusted the collar around his neck and sat up. “Found some forums online, then I got distracted by a thread about different types of collars and forgot to read the rest.”

He could see clearly in Aziraphale’s interrogative gaze the angel wanted to inquire about _forums_ and _threads,_ and knew that if the conversation went down that road he could say goodbye to the wonderful night of kinky sex he had planned for them.

“Look, you could, uh… you could even do nothing. Yeah, like - tie me to the bed and leave me there until you decide to have me.” He bit into his bottom lip and considered that. “Or you could drag me around the shop to help you with your work, make me carry all your stuff. Or you could keep me under your desk.” He licked his lips and looked towards Aziraphale’s messy escritoire. “Have me sit between your knees, use my mouth when you felt like it. Or—”

He hadn’t realised Aziraphale had moved so close until he felt the angel’s hand caressing his collar and then settling possessively on his jawline, ring and pinky finger on the fast pulse on the side of his neck. “Getting quite excited, aren’t we?”

“Well.” Crowley swallowed, not having to look down to know he was straining inside his pants. “Obviously.”

“I have to admit, all of that sounds quite appealing. I just hoped I’d have a moment to give you my Valentine’s present too?” He tugged on the leash to get him to stand up, so Crowley did.

“You get to decide what we do, angel. Kind of the whole point here.”

“Oh, alright then. It’s—under my shirt, actually.” Crowley gave him a confused look. “Would you help me get these off?”

He’d barely finished the question and Crowley’s hands were already on him, tugging away the cardigan and the baby blue shirt underneath. Weirdly, that day the angel was wearing no undershirt at all, which meant that Crowley could immediately notice the small golden circles hanging from his nipples.

“ _Piercings_?!” He all but shouted, yellow eyes going wide as saucers. “When’d you get these?”

“Oh, years and years ago, long before it became fashionable again. I had taken them out, but I reckon - well, things are different now, so why not?”

Crowley nodded furiously, his eyes fixed on the angel’s nipples, already picturing how those little pieces of jewellery would feel against his tongue. “Thank you. Yes. Wonderful gift.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale pulled him in to kiss the corner of his lips. “Look more closely.”

Crowley did, craning his neck to get a good look. He nudged one ring up with a finger, and Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath threatened to shut off his entire brain. That’s when he realised those weren’t simple rings - they were in the shape of ouroboros. Two little snakes biting their own tail.

“Fuck,” he gasped, the blood rushing down to his erection so fast his head spun.

“Do you like them?”

“I—those—you…” Crowley didn’t know what to say. He put both hands on his lover’s shoulder, an extremely serious look on his face. “Angel.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I think you just won Valentine’s day.”


	59. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: possession.

Crowley almost regrets teaching Aziraphale how to sleep. Almost.

He can’t bring himself to regret it only because the angel looks so annoyingly _nice_ while he sleeps, pale eyelashes against rosy cheeks. The soft noise of his light snoring, the relaxed features of his face, the way his curls stick to his head when he’s been lying on his side too long - it’s all lovely. And it’s also plain rude to look so charming in one’s sleep. It’s easy to lose track of time watching the angel rest, relaxed as he never was before the world almost ended. All it took was a quaint cottage by the sea and a lazy demon sharing his bed, who knew.

However, it turns out to be quite _frustrating_ too, far more than he could’ve imagined. Crowley didn’t know he’d get so used to being touched that he’d miss it desperately. A few days don’t seem like a lot, when the angel hasn’t touched him at all for six thousand years, and yet here he is, lying in bed next to Aziraphale, scowling in his general direction.

Now that Aziraphale isn’t expecting an archangel to pop in at any moment, he’s made a hobby of sleeping, and Crowley, well - he’s become clingy. And touch-starved. And oh - definitely hornier than he’s ever been. _Spoiled_ , Aziraphale would call him, before disappearing between his legs for another half an hour and make him forget his name.

“Is it my fault _you_ spoiled _me_? No, it isn’t.”

He rolls in bed this way and that, trying and failing to fall asleep. He shouldn’t have thought about Aziraphale’s face between his legs. Big mistake. Now that his mind is in the gutter, he won’t recover. He even swaps out his penis with a vulva, reasoning that if it’s harder to reach, he won’t be as distracted by it - but it doesn’t work at all. Maybe he should have got rid of his entire lower half. Yeah, just give himself a bunch of tentacles instead from the waist down, that’d be hilarious.

Although…

_No_ , no. He’s not going to go there.

He growls in frustration. “I should have never taught you how to sleep.”

Aziraphale has a smug smile on his sleeping face, as if aware of what kind of predicament he’s put Crowley through. Come to think of it, whenever Crowley’s whined about this new habit, the angel has replied that, of course, Crowley has carte blanche while he sleeps. That he can take care of himself, if he wishes, right next to him, over him, against him even. That he wouldn’t mind at all.

Suddenly, Crowley realises it all seems a little _too_ coincidental to be a random occurrence. He drags the blanket away from Aziraphale’s sleeping form, and sure enough - the angel is almost naked underneath, save for a pair of sheer white boxers. His left hand is propped on a pillow, with a red gift bow in its palm and a tag that says ‘ _Crowley’_.

“What the—” Crowley jumps back when he touches the tag and the hand moves. He blinks twice as he realises what the angel has set up for him. “ _Really_? Really? Possessing your own hand so you can fuck me with it in your sleep? What kind of kinky bastard…”

He looks down at himself, feeling abruptly very warm between his legs, and then back at Aziraphale’s hand, fingers beckoning him forward.

“Ah, fuck it.”

🌙

Aziraphale wakes up to exactly what he wanted to see, a beautiful naked demon riding his hand with total abandon. He realises with glee he’s three knuckles deep inside Crowley, fingers slightly hooked and pumping while the demon rubs himself against the palm of his hand.

They lock eyes for a split second and that’s what pushes Crowley over the edge; he bears down on him and bites hard into his bottom lip, a rush of warmth spreading across Aziraphale’s hand.

Crowley folds forward, panting, a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“You—” Crowley’s still very much straddling his arm as he looks up at Aziraphale. “Had nice dreams, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale somehow manages to repress the smile that wouldn’t make him look innocent at all. “Quite delightful, yes.”

Crowley grabs him behind the neck, crashing their lips together. “Fuck me.”

“Well, if you insist…”

He’s rather sure he hears Crowley muttering something about _butter not melting_ and _tongues_ , but by then the demon is already on his back, inviting him to sink in, and, well - it would be rather rude to refuse at this point, and Aziraphale knows his manners.


	60. Amateur Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Let's watch..."

Crowley isn’t sure why he accepted Aziraphale’s invitation.

_Amateur theatre_ , for Somebody’s sake. There are numerous better ways to spend a Friday evening! He just accepted because he’s bored. Or because he has no other important plans today. Or maybe because Aziraphale seemed so excited when he invited him, his ridiculous blue-green-hazel eyes lit up with joy.

Surely the fact that Crowley’s been secretly, irritatingly, hopelessly in love with this silly angel for an era and a half has nothing to do with it.

As soon as he steps in, he realises the theatre is in dreadful conditions. It smells vaguely mildewy, and also dusty, somehow? A weird combo of smells. The plush chairs of the parterre remember having been red in the past, but now they’re somewhere between a maroon grey and a desolate brown. Crowley picks a seat as far as possible from everyone else, then adds in the surrounding air a subtle suggestion that nobody wants to sit right next to the grouchy old man in the dark glasses and tight black jeans. Just to be sure.

There’s a stark difference between a movie theatre crowd and the people that come watch these plays. Namely, the latter are much louder and come in groups. And they bring _children_. To a _performance_. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, if you’re asking Crowley - he loves a little chaos, in any form it may come, and children are chaos personified. It’s the entire reason he likes them so much.

It starts with a woman in her mid-fifties taking the stage and launching herself into a verbose introduction of the play, the work they’ve done here, their ‘amazing volunteers’, the importance of culture and the arts in the community and blah blah blah. Crowley’s almost asleep by the time she’s finished.

The intro music definitely comes from an old stereo with a person sitting next to it, trying to hit play at the correct moment and praying the CD doesn’t start skipping this time. Which is kind of amazing, considering the other, more technologically advanced options available these days. It’s almost _vintage_.

The play itself is nice enough, luckily it’s a _commedia dell’arte_ kind of thing and Crowley doesn’t mind it too much. The amateur actors give it their best, and mostly they get their lines correct. Crowley knows it first hand: it’s difficult to be up there under the unforgiving, blinding stage lights, heart pounding, acting more on muscle memory than conscious effort.

And then Aziraphale comes on stage. Crowley tilts his head to the side as he tries to figure out what the hell the angel’s wearing. Which turns out to be a leather jacket, trousers much, _much_ tighter than his usual ones, and a dark shirt with the top three buttons open, showing off the slightest bit of chest hair.

Crowley can’t explain why, but his first reaction is to be seized by a terrible bout of second-hand embarrassment, seeing his friend dressed like that. It’s the same feeling he gets when the angel does magic, except somehow even worse.

But then Aziraphale speaks his lines, and Crowley peeks from between the fingers he hadn’t realised he has hid his face behind.

The angel enunciates distinctly and surely, he must’ve practiced for hours on end. Maybe Crowley is biased, but he feels like everyone else on that stage disappears next to Aziraphale. He chances a look around, but it doesn’t seem like anybody else is blown away by the angel’s skills, so he resolves to calm down and settles back in his seat.

Slowly, embarrassment gives way to amusement, and he gets absorbed enough in the story that he forgets he should look unimpressed and vaguely disgusted by the entire ordeal. Aziraphale is excellent at this. The confidence with which he moves is something to behold. The fact that he’s also very attractive in that getup doesn’t hurt either.

Crowley must have an awestruck expression on his face, because he catches two teenage girls giggling as they look in his direction and whisper to one another, and he hisses at them to make them stop. It’s not the first time random humans have noticed that he has capital-f-Feelings for the angel and, sure as Satan’s left armpit, it won’t be the last.

When the play is over, he hobbles outside, feeling somewhat like he’s been struck by lighting. He waits outside two whole hours before the angel finally shows up, after changing back in his regular clothes and, probably, celebrating with his actor friends.

“Crowley!” He chirps happily as soon as he spots him. “You came!”

“Ah, yeah, I was in the area.” He says, casually pushing forward a single white rose he got for Aziraphale. Because it’s customary to bring flowers to actors after their performances, obviously - no other reason. “Caught the end of it, ‘twas okay.”

Aziraphale takes the rose and squints, and Crowley feels like he’s seeing right through him. Like the angel knows he was there from the beginning, reluctantly watching the play and slowly getting invested. Taking his one chance to stare at Aziraphale in the open as much as he liked without having to hide, without having to avert his gaze after a moment.

He swallows.

“Now that I think about it.” The angel fiddles with the rose in his hand, the confidence he used on stage having drained out of him. “I meant to ask you - I have a bottle back at the bookshop, and I absolutely do not remember where I got it. I’m rather sure it’s wine, but the label has worn off and I think I might need your expertise on the matter. If you’re amenable?”

It’s really hard to suppress a smile. Crowley clears his throat and makes a display of rolling his eyes. “Heh, anything’s better than amateur theatre. Let’s go investigate that bottle, angel.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Crowley's snakey bits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22909966) by [gothikmaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothikmaus/pseuds/gothikmaus)
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  * [Drunk Storytime - Stories by Chamyl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239818) by [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish)
  * [[Podfic] First Parade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526816) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
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  * [[Podfic] The Naked Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038301) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
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  * [[Podfic] Babysitting Duties](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013693) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
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  * [[Podfic] Spa Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961967) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)
  * [[Podfic] One with Nature](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264061) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)
  * [Mushroom Shenanigans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29686629) by [CinnabarMint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnabarMint/pseuds/CinnabarMint)




End file.
